London Calling

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Well, that makes it easier,’ he continued smoothly. ‘I don’t think from memory we’ve got a darkie in the pictures tonight. Think I know the girl you mean. Plumpish. Comes with different fellas? I’ve not seen her with one of her own.’

  Mirabelle let his comments go. She felt slightly wobbly. The heat and the vibrant red of the walls, floors and ceiling were making her woozy. ‘Could we look in the screen, do you think? If she’s not there she might be at the dance hall.’

  ‘If she’d gone in I’d have noticed, love.’

  ‘I think we should check.’

  The man didn’t want to but Mirabelle’s resolve was clear. He pushed open the door into the blacked-out screen and led her down the aisle, flashing a torch into the seating area on either side. The audience members squinted as he checked each row. He was right. Vesta wasn’t there. Back in the foyer Mirabelle asked the way to the dance hall.

  ‘It’s upstairs on the roof. But it’s too early. The dancing doesn’t get going till later on – Syd and the band give it laldy from about eight. The best I can think is if she’s here at all she might be in the restaurant or one of the cafés nearby,’ he suggested.

  The man guided her gently outside. The cool air felt good on her clammy skin. She looked up and down. There were a lot of pubs, restaurants and cafés on Queen’s Road. Which one would Vesta favour on a night out? Suddenly Mirabelle felt exhausted, as if her ankles were about to give way. She leaned against the wall and realised she was shivering.

  ‘Bereavement can take a person that way,’ the manager said. ‘Might be best if you just left it to me. I’ll send her home.’

  ‘No. You don’t understand. I’m responsible,’ Mirabelle insisted. ‘We have go back inside.’ She swept back towards the doors with the manager in her wake. Inside he was immediately approached by one of the usherettes. A young girl outside the café had a bleeding nose. He whipped his handkerchief from his pocket.

  ‘Lean forward, love,’ he barked instructions, presenting her with the hankie to stem the Sow.

  Mirabelle took the opportunity to sneak off and wandered up to the cinema’s restaurant alone. A dumpy waitress in a black uniform with a frilly apron plodded Sat-footed towards her. ‘Table for one?’ she sniffed.

  ‘No, thanks, just looking for someone.’ Mirabelle scanned the room. There was no sign of Vesta.

  Downstairs the café was more lively with tables of weekend partygoers chattering animatedly. Mirabelle hesitated a moment. There she was. Vesta was at a table with friends. She looked happy and carefree, sharing a joke with one of the men. When she saw Mirabelle approaching the table her face lit up and she waved, jumping to her feet. Mirabelle’s heart sank.

  ‘Mirabelle!’ Vesta squealed. ‘This is Mikey, Gillian, Keith. Everyone, Mirabelle. She’s my boss.’

  They said how do you do and Mikey fetched another chair. Mirabelle hovered.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Vesta grinned. ‘Decided to see Scrooge after all? We haven’t gone in yet so you can come with us if you like.’

  Mirabelle sank into the chair. It would be easier to speak if she didn’t have to concentrate on staying upright.

  ‘I don’t know how to … Vesta, I’m sorry. It’s Lindon.’ Vesta extinguished her cigarette and looked at Mirabelle.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He died in police custody.’

  Vesta took a moment to take this in. Her face crumpled.

  ‘Don’t say they hurt him,’ she sobbed.

  ‘No. I’m so sorry. He hanged himself. Oh, Vesta. It was in the evening paper in London, and I came down straight away to tell you.’

  Gillian tried to put a hand on Vesta’s arm, but Vesta brushed it off.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe it. Oh, his mama. His poor mama. Why would he go and do a stupid thing like that? I’ve got to get up there. I’ve got to go to London tonight. Right now.’ Vesta fumbled for her coat.

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Vesta’s fingers were suddenly thick as she did up the buttons. She flung her arms around Gillian who remained sitting at the table. The men cleared their throats and looked awkward.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve spoiled your night now,’ Vesta apologised to her friends.

  ‘No. No. Don’t be silly,’ the others mumbled awkwardly as they watched the two women depart.

  Outside, Vesta heaved deep breaths in the cold air as if she was drowning. The Saturday night buzz receded around her.

  ‘Mirabelle, what the hell happened?’ Vesta gasped.

  ‘I thought something was wrong so I went up to town to have a look around. I should have gone to see him first, and I didn’t … I’m sorry, Vesta.’

  ‘You were in London? You left me behind?’ Vesta was incredulous. Fury flashed in her eyes. ‘You didn’t even let me know? Mirabelle!’

  Mirabelle hadn’t even considered that.

  ‘I’m sorry. It was spur of the moment, and it’s the weekend … I didn’t expect to find much.’

  ‘But you didn’t even tell me!’

  ‘I know. I didn’t plan it or anything. I met McGregor for a drink after you left the office and he said they’d arrested Lindon. Before I knew it I was at the railway station.’

  ‘You said you’d keep in touch,’ Vesta glowered. ‘Well, did you find anything? At least tell me that!’

  ‘There’s a lot that doesn’t tie up. I’m pretty sure that Lindon didn’t leave the club with Rose though people seem to accept that he did. And I’m also sure there’s some kind of cover up going on. Rose’s friend, Lavinia …’ Here Vesta hooted with laughter though Mirabelle realised that the poor girl was in shock. ‘This Lavinia appears to have given a statement that Rose and Lindon left the club together. The doorman agrees. But I doubt it. We need to speak to the officer in charge – Chief Inspector Green.’

  ‘Do you think we should try to get hold of McGregor?’ Mirabelle checked her watch. It was approaching eight o’clock. ‘Yes, let’s. That’s a good idea. I think I know where he’ll be.’

  They turned into town and headed for the Cricketers’ Arms. Vesta was distracted and upset. She tripped on the kerb and recovered her balance. Mirabelle held out her arm and Vesta grabbed onto it.

  ‘Look, you can’t leave me out like that.’ The girl’s eyes were flooding. ‘You have to promise me you’ll never do that to me again. I didn’t even know they’d taken him into custody. You said you’d ring.’

  Mirabelle turned. ‘I tried,’ she said, ‘but there was no answer. You’re right though. I promise I won’t hold back in the future. I’m really sorry. I got so caught up that I didn’t think.’

  Vesta shrugged.

  ‘You’re not on your own any more and neither am I,’ she insisted. ‘I know there’s some things I’m good at and others that are more up your street. That’s fine. But you have to tell me.’

  Vesta pushed open the pub door. Inside it was packed. The noise of the crowd was deafening. As they stepped inside a drunken man ogled Vesta. ‘Nig nog,’ he burped.

  ‘Have some manners!’ Mirabelle shouted over the din as she pushed past him towards the bar. Vesta tried to follow but the crowd was too dense. ‘You go,’ she motioned and watched the top of Mirabelle’s head heading further inwards.

  Sure enough, McGregor was nursing a pint in a relatively quiet corner.

  ‘There’s nothing like a reliable man,’ Mirabelle said.

  ‘Oh, Mirabelle. I’m so sorry. That boy, that friend of yours. I went to your flat but you weren’t there. He killed himself.’

  ‘I’m not so sure he did, Detective. Vesta’s with me, and we’re on our way up to London. I’d like to speak to Chief Inspector Green. Can you put me in touch?’

  McGregor looked at Mirabelle. The idea of her poking her nose
into police business again set him on edge.

  ‘Who told you that name?’ he demanded, slightly drunk.

  ‘How on earth did you find out who was in charge of the case?’

  ‘You said so yesterday!’

  Oh Christ! McGregor cursed himself. The damn woman never overlooked a single detail.

  ‘They’ll give you short shrift at the Yard. It’s one thing down here but you haven’t got a hope up in London. They just won’t tolerate women poking in their noses … Let me buy you a drink. Whisky, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Mirabelle had got what she’d come for. She squeezed her way through the crowd, back towards Vesta. The girl was right. She’d behaved unforgivably. Now she’d have to find a way to make it up to her.

  Chapter 11

  Jazz is black classical music.

  The receptionist at Duke’s adopted an artificially insouciant air when Mirabelle and Vesta arrived at ten o’clock.

  On the train they had made the decision to stay in the hotel overnight before Vesta went to the East End to visit Lindon’s parents, and for that matter her own family, the following morning.

  ‘Two single rooms? No luggage?’ She sniffed as she cast her eyes quickly over Vesta. ‘Give me a moment, Madam. I’ll have to check with the manager.’

  ‘We’ll be in the bar,’ Mirabelle said firmly, leading Vesta down the passageway.

  Inside, the bar had a cosy feel. A few tables were taken with couples drinking cocktails and smoking, but it didn’t feel crammed. Coming in from the cold the claret walls were warming.

  ‘A whisky sour and your usual table, Miss?’ The waiter approached.

  Vesta raised an eyebrow.

  Mirabelle ignored her. ‘Is Mr Brandon here?’

  The waiter shook his head. ‘You’ve just missed him.’

  ‘Do you know where he went?’

  The waiter was far too discreet to divulge this kind of information. Of course, Mirabelle knew exactly where he would be at this time of night. For a moment she considered beating the bushes in St James’s Park, the way they do on country estates when they want game birds to break cover. Heavens alone knew how many scandals that would produce. Eddie was quite outrageous but he was so unapologetic that he always seemed to get away with it. He’d be back eventually.

  ‘A whisky sour for me and my friend will have a martini.’ The women took a seat at a corner table. When the drinks arrived Vesta sipped hers tentatively at first and then gasped,‘Oh!’

  ‘The best in London.’

  ‘I’ll bet. And I’d say one might be enough. These babies are strong.’

  Mirabelle smiled. ‘A friend used to come here. Actually, Jack did. During the war. It’s not the Savoy or the Ritz or anything, but I like it. It’s … discreet.’

  Vesta looked around disbelieving. She’d never been to the Savoy or the Ritz but this hotel didn’t seem particularly ‘discreet’. The Italian waiter at the bar tossed a cocktail shaker in the air, and another waiter let out a cheer for show. The sound of clinking ice formed an elegant rhythm. An American couple clapped.

  ‘So, who’s this Mr Brandon? Another secret from your “discreet” past?’ Vesta picked up a walnut from the bowl on the table.

  ‘Oh, an old friend. I think he might be able to get hold of Chief Inspector Green for us. We’ll need help. McGregor was right about one thing – the Yard isn’t Brighton. Eddie Brandon is well connected.’

  Vesta’s eyes filled with tears and she bit her lip. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to have to go home aren’t I? And see Lindon’s parents. They’re going to be devastated, Mirabelle. What am I going to say?’

  Mirabelle wished Vesta didn’t have to go through all this. It was important, though, to focus on the practicalities.

  ‘Well, for one thing, see what you can find out. The police will have told Lindon’s family as much as they can and we need to know what they’ve said.’

  Vesta sighed and took a restorative sip of her martini. She had gone to Brighton specifically to get away from her loving but intrusive family and their extended friends and near relations.

  ‘I want to be there,’ she said, trying to convince herself.

  ‘But it’s going to be awful.’

  Mirabelle laid a hand gently on Vesta’s arm. ‘Goes without saying,’ she murmured.

  The receptionist appeared at their table and coughed quietly. ‘That appears to be fine, Miss Bevan. Any friend of Mr Brandon …’ She laid two keys on the table and avoided looking at Vesta. ‘If your maid needs any help with luggage …’

  ‘We don’t have any luggage, we shan’t require breakfast, and for your information Miss Churchill is not my maid. She’s my friend and business partner,’ Mirabelle snapped. The receptionist looked bemused by this information but Mirabelle continued breezily. ‘Miss Churchill and I will both be leaving early, so if you could have the first editions of the Sunday papers delivered to my room it would be most appreciated, including the News of the World, please.’

  The girl nodded dutifully but clearly couldn’t think of anything to say, least of all sorry. She turned sharply and marched back to the foyer.

  ‘I apologise, Vesta,’ Mirabelle said, sitting bolt upright in her outrage.

  Vesta shrugged. ‘If you worry about that stuff too much, you go crazy,’ she mouthed sadly. ‘What we’re going to do is far more important than what Miss High and Mighty thinks. Though I can’t say I’m not sick of it,’ she admitted. ‘Specially today.’

  Mirabelle gave a sympathetic look.

  ‘You wouldn’t think that we’d fought for everyone to be allowed their freedom,’ she said.

  ‘Freedom?’ Vesta sounded the word as if it was somehow foreign to her. ‘Yes. I suppose. Well, we’re here now and the main thing is to focus on finding out what happened and on clearing Lindon’s name. So where are you going tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Scotland Yard, of course.’

  Vesta regarded her cocktail misty-eyed. ‘He probably won’t be working on Sunday. Green, that is.’

  ‘I’ll take the chance.’

  Vesta took another sip. ‘Shame there aren’t any black policemen. It might not have happened …’

  ‘I don’t believe this happened to Lindon because he was black, Vesta. Honestly, he was just a kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and he got accused of something awful. I wish I’d gone to see him when I came up here. I could have helped. Do you think he just lost hope?’

  ‘Lindon? We shouldn’t have taken him to McGregor, should we? Oh God, it’s going to be terrible tomorrow. His mum and my mum. All any of us wants is to have him back. It’s like some horrible mistake has been made and now we can’t get out of it, can we?’

  Mirabelle squeezed Vesta’s hand. Death was often that way, it seemed. Unjust and unnegotiable. ‘I know,’ she whispered.

  They sat for a few minutes in silence watching the barmen concocting Singapore Slings and Cosmopolitans. The sadness at the table was palpable.

  Eventually Vesta looked at her watch. ‘I don’t think I’ll sleep,’ she said, ‘even after one of these. Do they have a wireless in the rooms?’

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘There might be one in the Residents’ Lounge. I tell you what, you don’t fancy going along to one of the jazz clubs? Just to have a look? Things will quieten down here soon, but the clubs are just opening. At least we’d be doing something.’

  ‘All right, why not?’ Vesta said bravely, managing a weak smile.

  The doorman at Jermyn Street didn’t appear to recognise Mirabelle from the night before. Sure-footed this time, she led Vesta down the stairs and through the door with the orange light above it, handing over the entrance money without even looking. Inside, the club was busier. It was a younger crowd tonight, women dressed in low cut tops with heavy eye
makeup, sipping champagne saucers of a drink that glowed orange in the low light. Men wore suits cut so sharply, they seemed to dance almost on their own. The band was playing full tilt and couples moved savagely to the raging beat. To one side a table was knocked and some drinks spilled. No one came to clear things up. The bar was three-deep, even with four men serving. Friday night. Mirabelle stood on her tiptoes – thankfully the barman from yesterday wasn’t on duty.

  Beside her Vesta swayed to the music. ‘The band are great! Did Lindon play here?’

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘But he came here once or twice, and it’s a small world. There’ll be plenty of people around who knew Lindon, I’m sure of it. I’ll get us a drink,’ she shouted.

  Vesta was intrigued. She began to snake towards the dance floor. The band was an eight-piece with saxes of different sizes, bass, drums, piano, trombone and trumpet. The entire company was white and they were dressed in matching suit trousers and crisp shirts with rolled-up sleeves. Bottles of beer were perched beside the instrument stands.

  As Vesta reached the dance floor she saw the black guy immediately. He was casually smoking a cigarette, and the sheen of his tan-coloured suit glinted in the low light. He grinned widely and beat out the rhythm with one hand as he leaned in to speak into her ear. ‘Hey, sister, what you doing in a place like this?’

  ‘I could say the same to you,’ Vesta shouted as she took the cigarette he was offering. She liked Chesterfields. He fired up a battered brass lighter and lit her cigarette.

  ‘You into this sound?’

  ‘I like saxophone.’

  ‘I play the horn.’

  ‘All good,’ she flirted.

  ‘You’re solid!’ The horn player motioned away from the hubbub. The band was so loud it was difficult to hear and the number was getting more and more frantic. ‘Come with me.’

  Vesta looked over her shoulder. It was hot in here and the music was overwhelming. On the dance floor a group of three women looked as if they were possessed as they danced. One man threw back his head and laughed maniacally. Mirabelle was nowhere to be seen, the melee at the bar completely obscuring her. Vesta sized up the horn player and made her decision. There was only one way to find things out. She followed him past the stage and through a door into a back room. The acoustics changed as he closed the door and gestured towards a chair in the middle of a jumble of instrument cases, a coat-stand covered in hats and a bucket with a mop propped in it. It was quieter back here, the jazz a thumping undercurrent.