Chapter Eleven
Justice is moderation regulated by wisdom
Mirabelle tripped down East Street the next morning, just in time to see Mrs Treadwell’s lavender figure disappear around the corner, pushing Noel in the pram as she cut into the glorious sunshine along the front. Gulls were wheeling across the slice of sky at the bottom of the street and the breeze had icy fingers. Autumn was on its way after all. She strode smartly down the sunny side and then clattered upstairs to the office where Vesta was sitting alone at her desk.
‘Good morning,’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘Gosh, where’s Bill?’
Bill had never arrived late to work in the four years since he’d started.
Vesta shrugged as she laid a cup of tea in front of Mirabelle. ‘Your face is getting better – the bruises, I mean. Oh, and Indians aren’t superstitious about cats – no more than we are. You know – black cats crossing your path,’ she announced.
‘You’re a marvel. Thank you.’
‘I was going to pop into the Taj Mahal and ask, but then I thought how annoyed I’d be. I’ve never been to eat there. I wouldn’t like it if somebody pitched up and just started asking me about Jamaicans – it didn’t seem right. So I phoned Mum. There’s an Indian family moved along the road from her. They’re from Madras. Dad helped them with the plumbing when they first moved in.’
Mirabelle glanced at the pile of papers on her desk. Vesta sat down. She leaned forward. ‘Well. A doctor. And a younger man.’
‘He said my face would heal.’
‘He’s right.’
Mirabelle changed the subject. ‘How are things going with the Hayward case?’
Vesta pulled her notepad towards her. ‘I just can’t find a way in. Any time I try to pin him down and make an arrangement, he sidesteps it.’
That had been the problem for months. Mr Hayward, who appeared perfectly solvent, had several outstanding debts that he was not minded to settle. Vesta had made enquiries, but she couldn’t find out what he was doing with his money, or why he kept promising to make a payment and then reneging. Repeated calls from Vesta and from Bill had had no effect. It was almost time to call in the bailiffs, in Mirabelle’s opinion. But Vesta persisted. ‘There’s got to be something we can do … There’s money there,’ she started vaguely, only she was interrupted by the sound of Bill’s footsteps on the stairs. He pushed open the door, Panther rushing in ahead of him as if the little dog knew that his master was late and was trying to make up for it. He gave a yelp that sounded like an apology and disappeared under Bill’s desk.
‘Good morning, Bill,’ the women chimed together.
‘Are you all right?’ Mirabelle added.
‘I’m fine.’
Vesta set about making more tea. Mirabelle took in Bill’s demeanour. He wasn’t a man who spoke much, but there was something stiff about him this morning. A small patch of unshaven skin sprouted under his ear. He’d missed it when he had shaved. It wasn’t like him.
‘Are you still investigating that home?’ he asked. ‘The children?’
Mirabelle didn’t answer but Vesta looked over her shoulder. ‘Have you ever known Mirabelle give up?’ she said affectionately. ‘And she’s a murder suspect to boot. Don’t help her, Bill. For heaven’s sake.’
Bill said nothing but gave a mere nod of his head, which somehow made it clear he accepted what Mirabelle was up to, but didn’t approve. He sipped his tea. ‘Plenty people end up in prison who shouldn’t be there,’ he said, flatly. ‘You ought to keep your nose clean, Miss Bevan. You’re a suspect, is what you are.’
‘We were just discussing the Hayward case,’ Mirabelle changed the subject.
Vesta picked up her pencil. ‘I am running out of lines of inquiry,’ she said. ‘Mr Hayward is, without question, the most unreliable man I’ve ever come into contact with.’
Bill shuffled the papers on his desk.
‘You missed a bit.’ Mirabelle indicated the area beneath her own ear.
Bill put his fingers to his face. ‘Blow it,’ he said. Then he peered at Mirabelle, tit for tat, looking at her bruises.
‘The doctor reckons I’m on the mend,’ she said.
‘Doctors. Pah!’ Bill let out a sharp exhalation and picked up the papers to put them in his pocket. ‘You should go to Hannington’s,’ he said very definitely. ‘I was thinking about it, and it might help us to crack Hayward.’
Vesta’s eyebrows raised – a silent question.
‘When I worked at the nick we sometimes looked at Hannington’s accounts to see what people were up to. You get home addresses, delivery instructions – all sorts. When you chase the working class, it’s easy to get the measure of them. But with these middle-class types we might need to take a sideways step or two. I thought, it might help – Hannington’s, that is. Looking into him, or rather his wife, do you see?’
It was a good idea, though Mirabelle suddenly felt uncomfortable. She had an account at Hannington’s. When she had refurbished the flat after the fire, Vesta had charged several items to it – household linen and some electrical goods as well as hats and gloves. Someone would be able to second-guess her apartment’s contents using the information, she realised. What you bought could be judged; but Bill was right, in the case of Hayward, they might get an idea of movement of money at the very least.
‘It’s Mrs Braithwaite you need,’ Bill said. ‘That’s the lady who runs the accounts department. She has Chihuahuas. They’re not my kind of dogs but I helped her out a couple of times with training. Tell her I sent you.’
He got to his feet and scooped the untidy pile of papers into his pocket. Panther sprang to heel. ‘See you later,’ Bill said as he closed the door and the sound of his steps receded down the stairs.
‘Do you think there’s something wrong with Bill?’ Mirabelle asked.
Vesta shrugged. ‘He never says much. Do you fancy nipping along to Hannington’s now? We could do it together.’
Mirabelle gave one last glance at the papers on her desk and reached for her jacket.
The window displays that ran in both directions along North Street from the main entrance seemed out of place in the bright sunshine. Woollen jerseys, winter coats and hats graced the models on display. A large cardboard cutout of a tree divested of its leaves made a striking centrepiece. Hannington’s might have moved on a season and Brighton had icy fingers, in the shade at least, but those fingers still clung to summer. Inside, the cosmetics department smelled vaguely of perfume. The store was quiet on a Tuesday morning and the serving staff were mostly rearranging displays and polishing mirrors with pieces of crumpled newspaper. A bottle of vinegar stood on the floor beside a display of French eau de Cologne. It released a distinctive tang on to the air.
‘Can I help you ladies?’ the sales assistant offered.
‘We’re going upstairs,’ Vesta said. ‘To accounts.’
Mirabelle and Vesta took the lift to the top floor. Hannington’s had grown over the years, adding new buildings here and there. These had been knocked together so that moving from one department to another was a haphazard business, up and down steps. They followed the signs for the Accounts Department, making their way past the hairdressing salon, through the food hall and turning left at a mahogany sign that said ‘Foreign Exchange’.
The department itself had an opaque glass door. Mirabelle knocked and entered. Inside, the office was light. The view was far better than the one McGuigan & McGuigan enjoyed, taking in the rooftops and benefiting from far more blue sky.
On the desk stood an open leather-bound ledger and a bell, but otherwise the place was deserted. Vesta rang the bell, which let out a sharp ping that resonated. Almost immediately, a smartly dressed girl of fifteen or so appeared through the door behind the desk. She wore black, kitten-heeled, patent-leather shoes, and a figure-hugging green tweed skirt. A pair of spectacles hung on a chain around her neck. It struck Mirabelle that she was making a great deal of effort to look older. Her skin was like cream.
‘Can I help you?’ the girl asked.
‘We’re looking for Mrs Braithwaite,’ Vesta said.
The girl pursed her lips, which were carefully painted with thick matte red lipstick.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Can I say what it is regarding?’
‘If you just tell her Bill Turpin sent us.’
The girl hovered, as if she felt this wasn’t a good enough reason to bother Mrs Braithwaite. Her eyes jumped from Vesta to Mirabelle as she sized them up. One finger rubbed against another.
‘I’m sure she’ll want to see us,’ Vesta said.
‘Wait here, please.’ The girl gestured towards two plush velvet stools against the wall and then disappeared back through the door.
Vesta leaned on the desk. She squinted at the ledger in an attempt to read the spidery writing upside down. ‘It’s a different kind of debt collection, I suppose.’ Her eyes narrowed as she made out a couple of the payments that had been taken.
Mirabelle sat on one of the stools and elegantly crossed her ankles to one side. ‘I have a Hannington’s card,’ she said.
Since the refurbishment, she had rarely used it. Generally these days she paid cash. Still, it would be interesting to see her file.
A minute or so later the door opened again and an older woman took her place behind the counter. She was tidily dressed but not as smart as the secretary and, Mirabelle noticed, wore sensible brown walking shoes. It was true what they said about dogs and their owners. Mrs Braithwaite was as petite as a Chihuahua with mid-brown hair and bright eyes. Her teeth were small and sharp. Mirabelle wondered if, beneath her sensible bun, the tips of the woman’s ears had pricked up. ‘Can I help you?’ she said.
‘Bill Turpin sent us. My name is Mirabelle Bevan and this is my colleague, Vesta Lewis.’
Mrs Braithwaite solemnly shook their hands in turn.
‘Bill hoped you might be able to help us. It’s a delicate matter. We’re trying to track down the details of someone we’re looking into.’
‘Mr Malcolm Hayward,’ Vesta said. ‘I have an address.’
‘Looking into?’
‘We’re from McGuigan & McGuigan, Debt Recovery. Bill works in our office now. You know – after that dreadful business with the dog meant he had to leave the police. Mr Hayward owes a substantial sum to our client. We’ve tried several lines of enquiry. Bill hoped you might be willing to help.’
‘Our customers are entitled to privacy, Miss Bevan.’ Mrs Braithwaite’s eyes narrowed. ‘Shopping at Hannington’s is a private matter.’
‘I know you help the police and, of course, this is different. We’d be so very grateful. Bill hoped you might make an exception. He’s a lovely man.’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Braithwaite tutted involuntarily. Bill had been asked to leave the police force because he had defended his dog against a drunk man who had stubbed out a cigarette on the Alsatian’s back. The man had ended up in hospital, which was deemed an overreaction by the police inquiry. Mirabelle had yet to meet anybody who didn’t think what Bill had done was right. She let the memory sink in.
‘It’s only that this is a delicate matter,’ she said. ‘Bill said you’re a marvel, quite apart from your lovely dogs. He said they’re just darling, you know.’
Mrs Braithwaite paused. Then she made her decision. ‘I cross-reference everything,’ she said. ‘You never know when details might have a use.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘You’d better come in.’
The interior office was larger and darker. The walls were lined with bookcases and filing cabinets. The high desks had black Anglepoise lamps leering over them like nosy ghosts. Here and there tall oak stools peppered the spaces between the desks – most sported tottering piles of papers, although the assistant who had first answered the bell was perched precariously at one of the desks, clearly taking pleasure in typing figures into an adding machine and briskly pulling the handle to get a total. In front of one of the filing cabinets, another girl, as dowdy as the first one was glossy, was on her knees sorting through one of the drawers.
‘Amanda,’ Mrs Braithwaite said. ‘Could you get me the file for a Malcolm Hayward?’
The dowdy girl got up and disappeared behind a row of filing cabinets.
‘I wonder, Mrs Braithwaite. Is there a toilet I could use?’ Vesta asked.
Mrs Braithwaite nodded. ‘Back outside. Along to the end of the hallway and turn left. You’ll see the signs for the customer toilets there.’
Vesta looked regretful but there was nothing for it. Mirabelle waited until the door closed behind her. Mrs Braithwaite cocked her head to one side.
‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
Mirabelle nodded. This woman was certainly perceptive. ‘It’s a mystery, really, but I do need help. It’s three women. I only have their first names. Uma. Berenice. Frida. I’d love to be able to find them. Their addresses, I mean.’
‘The names are quite unusual.’
‘All three are nurses. They live in Brighton, all to the east of Hove. I don’t know any more than that, I’m afraid.’
‘We don’t carry nursing supplies at Hannington’s.’
‘It’s home addresses I was hoping for. If they shopped here for household items.’
‘And the black woman mustn’t know?’
Mirabelle didn’t like to say it. It felt horribly disloyal. Instead she just tipped her head in agreement.
‘Right.’
Amanda had retrieved the Hayward file. She solemnly passed it to Mrs Braithwaite, who passed it to Mirabelle.
‘I’ll just be a minute or two,’ Mrs Braithwaite said.
The glossy junior finished adding up her line of figures. ‘See to the post, would you?’ the older woman ordered her.
‘But it’s still early,’ the girl objected.
The glance Mrs Braithwaite gave left no doubt who was in charge, and the girl scooped a small pile of envelopes from her desk and disappeared. ‘Uma will be easiest,’ Mrs Braithwaite pondered. ‘Not many names begin with U. Come with me, Amanda. We need the double index.’
Mirabelle hoisted herself on to one of the high stools. The Haywards had bought some lamps and cushions only last week. They were slippery customers – spending money and still refusing to cover their debts. However, they had made several payments to their account, all received only when Hannington’s issued a final notice and a further letter. This spoke to what they suspected in the office – Hayward had money, he just didn’t like paying his bills. Running her eyes over the file, Mirabelle noticed there were instructions to always deliver on Thursdays in the morning. At least if they wanted to find Mrs Hayward in, that would be a good place to start. Vesta returned and Mirabelle handed her the file. ‘Thursdays,’ she said. ‘We should call in person – especially if we can catch his wife. It might embarrass him into settling.’
Vesta’s dark eyes skimmed the pages. ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Maybe.’
Mirabelle peered out of the window. Far below, the faces of passers-by were shielded by their hats, small when viewed from this height. Just across the rooftops she could make out a small band of sea to the south.
‘I didn’t know you could see the beach from here,’ she said.
Vesta peered in the same direction. ‘Better than our view. We’re in the wrong office. Maybe we should move,’ she commented as Mrs Braithwaite appeared from behind the filing cabinets.
‘Was that any help?’ she asked smoothly.
‘Thank you. Yes.’ Vesta gave a wide grin. ‘It’s so appreciated.’
‘You can’t make a habit of using our files, ladies. Do you understand me?’
She held out her hand and Mirabelle shook it, realising there was paper against her palm. Mrs Braithwaite moved on to Vesta and then led the women to the door. ‘Give Bill my very best. He has a spaniel now, doesn’t he?’
‘It was a big change for him after the Alsatians – when he left the force.
Panther’s not much of a tracker.’ Vesta was in full flow. Mirabelle slipped the paper into her jacket pocket.
‘German dogs,’ Mrs Braithwaite replied flatly. ‘It’s not their fault, is it?’
Mirabelle thought of the many Nazis who had fled to South America. Not Mexico, perhaps, where she seemed to recall Chihuahuas were from, but still.
‘Many thanks, Mrs Braithwaite,’ she said. ‘It was very kind of you to help.’
Back at the office, time seemed to drag. Mirabelle didn’t manage to read the paper Mrs Braithwaite had given her until the afternoon, when Vesta nipped out for a late lunch.
‘Can I get you anything?’ she offered.
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine with another cup of tea.’
‘Well, you have your doctor to look forward to. Where is he taking you?’ Vesta asked as she pulled on her summer jacket.
‘I have no idea.’ Mirabelle realised her cheeks were hot.
Vesta laughed. ‘You’re like a schoolgirl. That’s a good sign,’ she teased delightedly before disappearing down the stairs and into the sun.
Mirabelle peered out of the window, catching a flash of Vesta’s dress from above as she made for the front. Then Mirabelle unfolded the paper. It contained an address, written in scrawl. Uma Simpson, it said. Seventeen West Drive. Then a note: Husband is Dr Simpson. Deliveries requested: all Tuesdays. Mirabelle crumpled the note into the bin. West Drive ran parallel to the park in the direction of Brighton racecourse. Mostly the houses were brick-built and a nice size for a family, though if Uma Simpson was nursing, it was fair to assume she didn’t have any children. Vesta was extremely unusual and, as a nurse, Uma didn’t keep office hours.
Mirabelle wrote a note and slapped it on to Vesta’s desk. Changed my mind about lunch, it said. Then she gathered her bag and her jacket, locked the office door and turned eastwards at the end of the street.
Indian Summer Page 10
