Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Your place looks better in the dark,’ she said.

  She felt him smile. He laid his hand in the small of her back. She put her head on his chest so she could hear his heart. She thought about asking him more about the post-mortem but somehow she couldn’t form the words. He kissed her and then he kissed her again. Her confusion dimmed like a lamp running out of oil. It was unaccountably peaceful and it didn’t take long before they were both fast asleep.

  Though Mirabelle was used to the sound of seagulls, her flat was on the first floor, the road at the front was tarmacked and cars passed, if not silently, then at a low rumble. It was early, she supposed, when she snapped awake as a sports car shot past, the sound like thunder rattling the window frames. Cobblestones, she thought as she shifted and the silence settled once more. Sunlight filtered in from the back of the mews in stripes that reached across the floor and along the furniture. She raised her head and realised there were Venetian blinds. Two gulls were calling to each other somewhere very close. Chris opened his eyes. He wound his arm around her shoulder. ‘Sleep all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He kissed her neck, nuzzling her collarbone. She pulled back, despite herself. The intimacy of the night before felt uncomfortable, as if falling asleep had reset matters on a more formal basis than when they were last conscious.

  Chris ran a finger down her forearm and raised her fingers to his lips. He kissed the flat of her hand and then bit the fleshy part between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Coffee?’ he offered.

  She nodded.

  He rolled off the sofa and pulled a stovetop espresso pot from the cupboard. His hair was out of place and his shirt crumpled. She felt a strong pull towards him but she resisted.

  ‘What else have you got in there?’

  ‘Everything I need. Whisky. Good coffee. And breakfast. It’s a magical cupboard.’

  He laid a packet of macaroons on the surface while he busied himself with the coffee. The smell of it brewing quickly overtook her. It was bright outside – the beginning of another sunny day. This place looked, she thought, as if it had been searched by the police. The bedroom must be upstairs. She wondered what it was like. The mews would drive Sister Taylor to madness, she smiled, remembering the tidy, tiny bedsit with everything in exacting order.

  ‘I can see why you prefer the Old Ship Hotel when you’re out with a lady.’

  ‘We can get a room there, whenever you’re ready. There’s no rush. The Royal Suite, if you’d like it. Or another hotel. Anything for you, Miss Bevan. I’m at your service.’ He saluted.

  She wondered exactly what this man had done in the military, and if he’d seen action, but decided not to ask. Instead she ran a hand through her hair and slid around the side of the sofa. The pot began to bubble as she kissed him. As she broke away he held her gaze, poured two small cups of inky espresso and opened the macaroons.

  ‘Breakfast is served,’ he said as a newspaper fell through the letterbox on to the mat.

  ‘Mmm.’ Mirabelle sipped and felt the bitter taste spread on her tongue. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘I lived in Italy for six months. I can’t bear watery English instant any more. Or chicory. Jesus. What are you doing today?’

  ‘Work, I suppose.’

  ‘What is your work exactly?’

  ‘I own a debt recovery agency. McGuigan & McGuigan. The office is at the bottom of East Street.’

  ‘That is a very unusual job for a lady.’

  ‘I fell into it.’

  ‘After the war?’

  ‘Which was in no way as interesting as your war, I’m sure. Italy?’

  ‘Only for a few months. I was in charge of a field hospital.’

  ‘And you’ll be cutting up Bad Luck Bone today. I hope you can figure out why he died.’

  ‘You know what they say about pathologists?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We have an infinite capacity for suspicion. I’ll get there in the end.’

  Mirabelle kissed him again. This time he tasted of coffee.

  ‘I suppose I should get going,’ she said, lifting a macaroon.

  ‘I could call a taxi for you.’

  ‘It’s a nice morning. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Mirabelle, can we try again? I mean, dinner.’

  ‘At the Ship?’

  ‘Anywhere you like.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That would be good.’

  ‘I know an Italian place towards Hastings.’

  ‘Well, that’s fitting. Italian it is, then.’ She bit into the macaroon and headed for the sunshine outside.

  He watched from the doorway with the coffee cup in his hand, as Mirabelle picked her way down the cobbles. She squinted, annoyed that she hadn’t brought her sunglasses the night before – not that she could have known. The sun was so bright you’d think it was springtime. The world seemed hopelessly optimistic. She glanced back as she rounded the corner on to the main road and he raised a hand.

  At the front, she couldn’t decide which way to turn. It was still early, she realised, and she was overdressed for the office, but it seemed a palaver to head home just to change. Instead, she crossed Kingsway and stood enjoying the sunshine. The teashops were opening and the smell of baking bread wafted on the air. Behind her a young lad was winding down a candy-striped canopy over a shop window.

  As she reached the bottom of East Street, she saw there were still two bobbies on duty on the other side of the pier, where the ambulances had gathered the night before. It was pleasant, walking, so she continued.

  ‘Good morning, officer,’ she said cheerily.

  ‘Miss Bevan,’ the man greeted her. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I just wondered if you’d found anything.’

  ‘If we had, miss, it would be evidence, and you’re a member of the public.’

  ‘It seems strange you’re still here.’

  ‘Tides,’ the policeman said after a short pause. ‘What isn’t washed up on one might be washed up the next. We didn’t want anyone to get a fright this morning.’

  ‘You think there might be more bodies?’

  ‘Oh no, miss. I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Was part of him missing? Mr Bone, I mean?’

  ‘There’s nothing to concern yourself with, miss. Nothing at all. We’re only here as a precaution.’

  Mirabelle let out a sigh of frustration. ‘But I am concerned,’ she said stubbornly.

  The policeman, however, would give her nothing more, and she decided there was limited information to be gained simply watching the officers walking along the foreshore with their eyes on the pebbles. Instead, she turned towards East Street.

  In the office she stared at the kettle momentarily, before dismissing the idea of putting it on to boil. It seemed almost sacrilegious not to make tea, but these days she realised she was doing several things against the grain. She checked her appearance in the mirror and carefully combed her hair. It made her think of Chris stroking her head on the sofa the night before in the dark, and the taste of strong coffee mingled with sweet macaroon. Suddenly, it felt too shady to be inside. She switched on all the lights and, without considering too carefully, reached for the telephone directory.

  Bone was a more common surname than she had suspected, and the directory ran to three pages of them. Still, if the dead man had a telephone, which wasn’t a given, he’d be here. Jerry, the man had said. There was a string of J. Bones in the Brighton area. ‘Jerry. Jeremy,’ she said, and then ran a finger down the listings and checked the addresses. Then she checked them again. ‘Or G,’ she considered, and checked those.

  Now, that was interesting, she thought as she sat back in her chair and rifled her drawer for the map of Brighton. ‘It can’t be right,’ she said under her breath. But she checked the telephone directory one more time and it was. If it was him, it was G. Bone. Gerald, perhaps. Quickly she scribbled a note and left it on Vesta’s desk before locking the office door behind her and clattering down th
e stairs. Her heart was pounding as she tried to piece together what she’d found and make sense of it.

  Outside, a van had pulled up at the kerb and a man in a brown apron was reaching into the back.

  ‘Is McGuigan & McGuigan up there?’ he asked over his shoulder. ‘An office, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mirabelle, scarcely stopping. ‘Debt Recovery. There’s nobody in. They’ll be here any minute, I expect.’

  The man closed the van door, a large bouquet of white and yellow roses over his arm. ‘For a Miss Bevan,’ he announced. ‘Would that be right?’

  Mirabelle came to a halt. ‘Is there a card?’

  The man proffered the bouquet so she could see it. Smartly, Mirabelle picked the little envelope out of the flowers. She didn’t want to waste time. ‘Leave it at the top of the stairs. At the door,’ she said. ‘They’ll look after it when they get in.’

  Then she turned up the pavement and made her way towards the main road to catch a bus. The one that ran up Dyke Road, if she remembered correctly. Back in the direction of Hove.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The gods are too fond of a joke

  Tongdean Avenue looked as upmarket as ever it had in the spring of the year before when Mirabelle had first visited. The area, two miles from the front, consisted almost exclusively of detached houses with large gardens that were mostly occupied by families. The children were back at school by now, but Mirabelle spotted the signs of a well-spent summer – roller skates abandoned under a bush, and a tree-house she was sure hadn’t been in place the last time she’d been up here. Halfway up the street, a Silver Cross pram sat on one of the lawns with its cover raised and a baby asleep inside. After Uma’s garden, nothing would ever seem quite as bright, but the green plots along the avenue made a brave attempt. Several of the houses were painted white, which lent a summertime feel, and the beds were planted with bright yellow and white flowers with dark, glossy leaves. It seemed, she realised, more than a year since she had first set foot on this pavement, in the days she was still connected to McGregor. She’d been told about the house by her friend Fred, who had now been dead for more than sixteen months, she counted carefully. Him and his son.

  Outside a brick-built, five-bedroom property on the corner she came to a halt. Last year there had been a scatter of forlorn-looking irises poking through the muddy ground, but now they had been removed and the low privet hedge had grown so that it almost obscured sight of the front door. The house’s lead-paned windows remained discreetly shielded by prim white net curtains, and the front gate was closed. Of all the properties on the street, it looked the least welcoming by far. Mirabelle considered the irony of this for moment. Then she pushed open the gate and rang the front doorbell.

  In due course, the door was answered by a maid in an ill-fitting dark wig. Last year the old woman had worn a housecoat that Mirabelle had considered too young for her. Today, however, she wore a more mature plain green apron as she peered short-sightedly across the threshold.

  ‘Good morning,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I don’t suppose you remember me?’

  The woman made a harrumphing noise that neither denied nor confirmed any recognition.

  ‘I’m looking for Jinty,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Is she at home?’

  ‘It’s twirly,’ the woman replied, sucking her false teeth.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Twirly. She’s not up yet.’

  ‘Ah. Too early. The thing is, I wanted to speak to someone about Mr Bone.’

  The woman’s blue eyes narrowed. They were so watery that Mirabelle almost expected tears to run down her plump, thick-skinned cheeks, squeezed out under the pressure. The maid appeared to be in the process of deciding whether to acknowledge that she knew the name.

  ‘Gerry Bone. Bad Luck Bone, as I think he was known.’ Mirabelle left the poor woman nowhere to hide.

  ‘You best not,’ the maid said at last. ‘There’s nobody here.’

  ‘No one at all? Couldn’t you wake Jinty? I think she’d want to speak to me about this. Really I do.’

  But the maid didn’t reply. Instead she stepped away from the door and closed it in Mirabelle’s face.

  ‘Well, really,’ said Mirabelle.

  With a sigh, she cut back down on to the main road, slightly wearily, and made for the nearest phone box where she dialled the number she’d looked up earlier. It rang out for almost a minute before a woman’s voice picked it up. It wasn’t the maid, that much was clear.

  ‘Yes, darling,’ a glamorous voice said. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Hello. I need to speak to Jinty, please,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘It’s her sister.’

  ‘Hold on, ducks. She’s still sleeping, I think. Do you want me to get her to ring you back?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind fetching her. I’m sorry to trouble you.’

  ‘Mum sick again is she?’ the girl sounded sympathetic.

  Mirabelle didn’t like to implicate Jinty’s mother, but she didn’t have to because, before she could speak, the voice disappeared; a minute or so later, Jinty picked up the handset.

  ‘Hello. Peggy?’

  ‘God. I’m sorry. It’s Mirabelle, Jinty. Do you remember me?’

  ‘Mirabelle?’ the voice sounded unsure.

  ‘We went to that party down the coast.’ Mirabelle realised that this probably wasn’t the best way to describe herself – Jinty went to a myriad of glittering parties. ‘You showed me the ropes. I was considering … joining the team. Last year.’

  Jinty squealed. ‘Mirabelle! How nice to hear from you? Changed your mind, have you?’

  ‘I came to the door but your maid turned me away, just now.’

  ‘Oh, she’s like that in the mornings.’

  ‘Could I come up and see you?’

  ‘Of course. Come round the back. I’ll let you in.’

  Mirabelle walked back up the avenue. Down the side of the house, the gate to the back garden was unlocked. She pushed it open, stopping as soon as it creaked, and slipped through the gap that had been afforded. The back garden was well kept. A large willow tree dominated, with most of the rest laid to lawn. Mirabelle surveyed the windows on the first floor. Three were shielded by drawn curtains. She waited for a moment or two, enjoying the sun. Then one of the curtains shifted and a slice of a woman’s face appeared between sheaves of cream fabric printed with huge pink roses. As far as Mirabelle could make out, she was wearing pale blue satin pyjamas and her hair was in rollers. It wasn’t Jinty. The woman was black. She opened the window and leaned out.

  ‘Are you Mirabelle?’ she said.

  Mirabelle nodded. The girl called back into the house. ‘She’s there,’ and then disappeared without opening the curtains. A minute later the back door opened and Jinty stood, rubbing her eyes. Her hair was pinned up in seeming disarray.

  ‘Belle!’ she shouted delightedly, as if she had run into Mirabelle at a party. ‘When the phone went early Tanya thought you were some desperate fella. We get some mad ones, you know. Deranged bastards. So, are you here to reconsider?’

  ‘I don’t have the nerve,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘But I do want to speak to you. About Mr Bone – if you don’t mind.’

  Jinty ran a hand over her head, feeling for the rollers that were haphazardly pinned into her hair. She began to pick them out, shoving the hairpins in the corner of her mouth as she removed them into the pocket of her cream cotton dressing gown. ‘We heard last night,’ she said. ‘The rozzers were here. The place cleared quicker than when the wife comes home. Come in then.’

  Jinty stepped back, almost tripping over her fluffy white slippers. With the rollers gone, her hair fell in a perfect arc, with just the right amount of curl. She directed Mirabelle through a short lobby and into an old-fashioned kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry if I woke you,’ Mirabelle apologised.

  ‘It’s all right. I got to bed earlier than usual. Want a cuppa?’

  Inside, the kitchen smelled of stale alcohol, and the maid glower
ed as she emerged from the pantry.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Doris. Don’t you remember Belle?’

  Doris didn’t speak, only passed by with a duster in her hand. Jinty ignored her and made to put on the kettle. She reached for a tin of tea and sorted some cups on the table. The scene was oddly domestic for a brothel.

  ‘How have you been?’ Mirabelle asked. It wasn’t only out of politeness. Mirabelle realised that she cared about what happened to the girl. Jinty was always cheerful but her chosen profession wasn’t easy. Mirabelle should have come back earlier, she realised. She’d been remiss.

  The girl scooped tea leaves into a glazed, earthenware teapot and poured on hot water. ‘Fun and games. You heard what happened last year?’

  Mirabelle nodded. Jinty’s boss, Ernie Davidson, had been murdered. Mirabelle didn’t tell Jinty that she had been present when it happened. It seemed, she realised, an occupational hazard for the men associated with this house, now she came to think about it.

  ‘And Mr Bone?’ she put the question. ‘Do you know anything about it?’

  Jinty sounded light-hearted. ‘Different kettle of. Gerry wasn’t our boss. I’ve been running the place, truth be told, ever since Ernie died. I’m the management. Can you believe it?’ She laughed.

  ‘That’s odd. This place is down as Bone’s address. That’s how I made the connection.’

  ‘Oh that? They had to put a bloke’s name in the directory, didn’t they? I mean, if the punters think it’s all women … No. Gerry Bone was single, is all. None of the married fellas wanted their name on it. Can’t blame them, if you think about it.’

  ‘So he didn’t really live here?’

  ‘That didn’t stop the police pitching up, of course. Geniuses. They know. But they have to hit the bases, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘They know?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Mirabelle tried to form a question that did not involve Superintendent McGregor’s name. Jinty stirred the tea in the pot, which, Mirabelle realised, hadn’t been properly warmed. The girl struck the spoon twice on the lip and replaced the lid with a decisive click before pouring immediately. The making of tea was not one of Jinty’s greatest accomplishments.