Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

It occurred to Mirabelle that this was, of course, what Father Grogan had been trying to do.

  ‘It seems above board. They’re doing good work. At least some of the time. I’m sure of it. I asked Lali if she was punished or abused in some way, but she seemed bemused at the idea.’

  Vesta checked her watch. It was three o’clock.

  ‘Are you sure about Father Grogan? Are you sure he wasn’t involved in something shady? Whatever it is they’re up to?’

  ‘I’m not sure of anything,’ Mirabelle admitted. It seemed to her suddenly that she had been wandering about in a daze. ‘But, given what’s happened, I think we should go and see the doctor, Uma’s lover, don’t you?’

  The bus arrived in good time up on the main road and the women climbed aboard. Mirabelle paid the fares and Vesta took the tickets as the conductor punched them. The women gazed out of the window as the bus drove eastwards. Passing through town, there was already a queue outside the cinema – people leaving work early on a sunny day, maybe one of the last sunny days of the year. Everyone kept saying it couldn’t last for ever. Then the bus turned north, leaving the sun behind it.

  At the hospital, two nurses came down from the top deck and got off ahead of Vesta and Mirabelle. They stubbed out their cigarettes on the paving stones and trotted up the steps. The Royal was busy – there must be a change of shifts and, of course, there were visiting hours at this time of day, Mirabelle remembered.

  Vesta led Mirabelle smartly through the front door and up the main staircase in the direction of the maternity unit. On a Friday afternoon, visiting would be especially crowded, Mirabelle thought. It seemed odd to be back for the first time after the freezing December evening when she’d rushed to make sure Vesta was OK, and had met Noel for the first time. Today the ward was awash with babies and bunches of flowers as proud new fathers and grandparents flocked to the beds. Laughter was interspersed with the sound of one baby crying, and when that baby stopped, another started, as if they were part of some kind of tag team.

  Vesta motioned to her friend, Marlene, who was at the nurses’ station with her sleeves rolled up, changing a nappy.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Marlene mouthed. She looked annoyed.

  ‘We’re in search of a doctor,’ Vesta said. ‘A female one.’

  ‘Dr Ellen Simpson,’ Mirabelle cut in. ‘Do you know the ward?’

  ‘She works with the elderly downstairs. I’d try Seven or Eight if I were you. Why?’

  ‘Her lover tried to kill herself this afternoon.’

  ‘The Indian girl? No.’

  ‘You know about them?’

  ‘Everyone knows about them,’ Marlene warmed to the subject. ‘Lesbians,’ she said sagely, under her breath, as she fixed the nappy in place with a pink enamel safety pin and kept one eye trained over Vesta’s shoulder, to make sure nobody was close enough to hear what she was saying.

  Mirabelle sighed. Marlene lifted the baby and surveyed her work. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘if Sister catches you here for no reason …’

  ‘Thanks,’ Vesta grinned.

  Back downstairs, the elderly wards were more sedate and, although visiting was under way, you’d hardly know it. The smell of talcum powder disappeared and instead there was a bitter tang on the stale air – a mixture of urine and bleach and paper-thin skin. A single visitor perched uncomfortably beside one of the beds. A nurse was serving tea on Ward Seven, dispensing Rich Tea biscuits with every cup. ‘Excuse me,’ Mirabelle enquired, ‘I’m looking for Dr Simpson.’

  ‘She’ll be in her office at the end of the hallway on the right.’ The nurse trotted out.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Mirabelle was silently glad that Julie had died at home – dying here would be doubly depressing. She thought of the Turpins’ tidy house and the sound of children playing in the street as Julie slipped away. Vesta nodded at Mirabelle, motioning her to knock on the doctor’s door.

  At her desk, Ellen Simpson looked up and took a moment, it seemed, to recognise Mirabelle. When she did, she got to her feet, as if she might slam the door again. Mirabelle and Vesta slipped inside too quickly.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ the doctor snapped. She glared at Vesta.

  ‘This is my business partner, Vesta Lewis. We’ve come about Uma. Today, at the children’s home, she took an overdose. We thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s all right. The nurses made her sick and now they have sedated her in one of the dormitories. Nurse Berenice is sitting with her. But I thought they might not have told you and, well, you ought to know. Vesta happened to be visiting, you see.’

  Doctors, Mirabelle thought, were invariably calm, practical people. Ellen hesitated for only a second. ‘Thank you,’ she said as she pulled off her white coat and left it on her chair. ‘I had better go.’ She scrambled behind her desk for her handbag, which was more a kind of satchel, and then picked up a leather doctor’s case as well. ‘Do you know what she ingested?’

  Vesta cut in, ‘I was there, but all I know was that they were some kind of white pills she found in the office. There were pills everywhere, actually.’

  ‘When did she take them?’

  ‘It must have been about an hour and a half ago. Around then.’

  They followed the doctor into the hallway towards the front door.

  ‘Did you know Mr Bone, Doctor?’ Mirabelle tried.

  ‘Mr Bone?’

  ‘Gerry Bone. The man whose body was found on the front?’

  ‘No. Of course I didn’t know him.’

  ‘He’d been to the children’s home, you see. Who is the man in the blue Jaguar? The man who came to pick up Uma the other day.’

  ‘Look, I need to get going. All that isn’t important now.’

  ‘All what?’

  The doctor banged through the front door and took the steps outside at a lick. There was a short rank of taxis on the other side of the road and she headed for them with some determination.

  ‘Thanks for coming to tell me,’ she said, as the driver at the head of the queue sprang out and opened the door for her.

  ‘Just a name, that’s all we want,’ Vesta pressed.

  ‘A name?’

  ‘Any of the men involved. It would help such a lot.’

  ‘Help whom?’

  ‘Maybe Uma.’

  The driver closed the door. Mirabelle knocked on the window and the doctor rolled it down unwillingly. There were tears in her eyes now – the shock had hit.

  ‘Do you know why Father Grogan died?’ Mirabelle asked.

  ‘He was poisoned.’

  ‘Yes. But why?’

  The engine started. The driver turned to ask the destination. The doctor trotted out the address with a sniff.

  ‘We didn’t have anything to do with the priest dying. Not me. Not Uma,’ she said. ‘Please, leave us alone. We’ll have to leave now, don’t you see?’

  As the taxi pulled out into the road, Mirabelle and Vesta could only watch it recede down the sunny street.

  ‘She knows all about it,’ said Vesta. ‘Doesn’t she?’

  ‘Of course she knows. They all do,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘It’s just getting it out of them. We need names – someone who knows the people.’

  ‘Or the car,’ Vesta said decisively. ‘Blue is an unusual colour. Most Jags are black or British racing green.’

  ‘Well, yes, there’s that. But I don’t even have the number plate.’

  Vesta crossed her arms. She took a deep breath, as if she was making a decision. ‘Well, we can try. I have an idea – there’s a garage.’

  ‘You said it was in London.’

  ‘The Jaguar garage is in London. That’s different.’

  Mirabelle smiled. Vesta, once she got going, never gave up. It was nice to have her back. Mirabelle felt suddenly incredibly grateful.

  ‘Come on,’ Vesta said. ‘We can get a bus. It’ll give us time to think and it’s cheaper.’

  Chapter
Twenty-Six

  Judge a man by his questions rather than his answers

  Vesta was always at home around vehicles. She’d spent eighteen months working at Halley Insurance, down the hall from McGuigan & McGuigan, before she took up with Mirabelle. She claimed these were the most boring months of her working life, but she’d retained a knowledge and interest in cars that was quite out of Mirabelle’s reach.

  The women caught a bus down Eastern Road back towards town, but only for a couple of stops. Vesta rang the bell and the driver came to a halt. ‘Come on,’ she said, hopping back on to the hot paving stones. The two women walked back up the hill a little way, the sea breeze at their backs, until they reached a garage, painted white with a sign that said ‘Kemptown Motors’. It was, Mirabelle noted, conveniently placed – close to town. The paint was flaking, and there was a single petrol pump to one side. Several cars were parked at the entrance, including two Black Marias that Mirabelle knew must be old police cars.

  ‘Hello,’ Vesta called to no avail.

  An acrid whiff of rotting rubbish hung on the air, alongside a heady undertone of petrol.

  ‘This place looks pretty down at heel,’ Mirabelle said.

  Vesta checked her watch. ‘Those are the best garages. Good mechanics don’t bother to, you know, maintain anything other than engines. Hello,’ she called again, into the interior of the garage from the door. Her voice echoed. A pigeon landed on the skylight and then flew off. There was no reply.

  ‘Do you think they might have finished early?’ Mirabelle ventured.

  ‘And left the pump unlocked and the door open? No.’

  Then a voice shouted Vesta’s name from outside. The women spun round in the direction of the street to see a small man in greasy overalls on the edge of the pavement opposite. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips.

  ‘Vesta!’ he shouted again, and he crossed without properly checking for traffic, his arms held wide. ‘Hello, girl. Haven’t seen you in a while,’ he said, his cigarette still in place as he clasped his fingers around Vesta’s arm, and excitedly gave it a squeeze.

  ‘I changed jobs, Mike.’

  ‘Did you now? Who’s this?’ He held out a grease-smeared hand towards Mirabelle.

  ‘Mirabelle Bevan,’ she said, shaking it as enthusiastically as she could. Mike smelled of engine oil.

  At least, Mirabelle thought, it was better than the smell on the air.

  ‘We’re looking for a car,’ Vesta said. ‘Details. Just on the off-chance. I was hoping you might be able to help.’

  From the other side of the road a bell chimed as another man walked out of the doorway. ‘Mike,’ he shouted over the road. ‘You want the rest of this?’ He held up a small plate with a half-eaten roll on it.

  ‘Yeah. Go on then,’ Mike smiled. ‘And the tea.’

  The man disappeared inside again, past a hand-painted sign that said ‘Café Here’. He emerged with a mug and carefully crossed the road, where he deposited it on the hood of one of the parked cars.

  ‘Thanks, Johnny. I got all excited spotting Vesta here. She’s one of my best customers. Well, the source of them.’

  ‘Best garage in town,’ Vesta insisted with a grin. ‘Where else would I send my clients?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Mike removed the cigarette, stubbed it out, picked up the roll and bit into it. He chewed unenthusiastically. ‘Eggs ain’t up to much when they’ve gone cold,’ he said. ‘And there’s that smell too.’

  ‘Want me to make you another?’ the other man offered. He sniffed. ‘It’s not so bad today, is it? The other week, whooph! I just about fainted when I came over.’

  Mike shook his head. He took a long slurp out of the mug and patted his stomach. ‘I’ve had enough. It’s put me off, so it has. So, Vesta, what have you been up to, then?’

  ‘I went to work in debt collection. McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery,’ she announced proudly, presenting Mike with a business card from her handbag.

  Mike sucked air through his teeth as he examined it. ‘Tricky business, that. You’ll need all your skills.’

  ‘And some new ones,’ Vesta winked.

  Mike laughed. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a packet of Capstan cigarettes and lit one, placing it in his mouth. Mirabelle looked at the petrol pump with dubiety. Faded but clearly in place there was a No Smoking symbol.

  ‘Don’t mind that, love. You light up if you want to,’ Mike said cheerily.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Thank you.’

  The man from the café cleared the crockery. He poured the rest of the tea into the gutter. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, and crossed back over the road, disappearing back into the café with a tinkle of the bell.

  ‘Well, I suppose that explains it. I thought you were dead or something. I thought you’d got married.’

  ‘Oh, I did get married,’ Vesta grinned. ‘Sorry. I should have said.’

  ‘I suppose you’re a married lady too?’ The mechanic eyed Mirabelle.

  ‘No. Not at all.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you want to be?’ A thick, hacking, phlegmy cough emanated – the sound of him laughing at his own joke.

  ‘I had a baby – a little boy,’ Vesta changed the subject.

  ‘Well now. Congratulations. And now you need a car, is that it? Come to cash in on all those customers you sent me? I’ve got a sweet little Triumph in the back. I can fix it up and it’ll run like a dream, you’ll see.’

  ‘No. I have a bicycle, actually. Can you see me on a bike? No! But I love it. The thing is, Mike, we came because we’re looking for the owner of a car. A Jaguar, actually. A blue one. I wondered if you knew the vehicle. A blue Jaguar is quite unusual and, if they knew their onions, they’d get you to service it, rather than sending it up to London every time, wouldn’t they?’

  Mike looked left and right down the street. He pulled back his shoulders. ‘A dark blue Jaguar, you mean?’ he checked. ‘Navy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Driven by a man with a moustache.’

  ‘Been in an accident, has it?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that,’ Vesta assured him.

  ‘Does the driver owe somebody money?’

  ‘Not on our books. Mike, do you know who he is?’

  Mike motioned the women to come inside the garage. Mirabelle looked up and down the street. There was hardly anyone to be seen. Inside, Mike drew deeply on his cigarette, clutching it between forefinger and thumb. He did this three times.

  ‘Are you in some kind of trouble, Vesta?’

  Vesta laughed. ‘Not that I know of.’

  Mike stared at her, as if he was reading her face. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’d keep away from that guy, if I were you.’

  ‘Is that so? Why?’

  ‘They’re not nice people. That’s all.’

  ‘You’ve fixed the car, though?’

  ‘Yes. You don’t turn those guys away.’

  ‘What guys?’

  ‘Down from London,’ Mike said mysteriously. ‘Not on holiday neither. Just down from London, if you see what I mean. I can’t imagine why you’d even want to know who that guy is. My advice is to keep away from him.’

  Mirabelle laid her hand on Vesta’s arm.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Well, I guess we’d best be going. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where we might find these men?’

  Mike shifted. ‘Don’t go looking for them, miss. That’s my advice.’

  ‘You don’t have an address?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t. And if I did I’d think twice about giving it to you. It’s good to see you, Vesta. Shame it’s taken so long.’ A small piece of ash floated to the ground from the end of his cigarette.

  ‘Thanks,’ Vesta said. ‘It’s good to see you too.’

  Back out on the street, the women turned towards the sea. The breeze offered relief from the heat. The smell quickly disappeared and the fresh air seemed sweet by comparison. It struck Mirabelle as strang
e how quickly they had got used to it.

  ‘Well,’ said Vesta, ‘that wasn’t like Mike. Not the way I remember him. He’s always been such a cheery chappie.’

  ‘The mob will do that to the cheeriest,’ Mirabelle said.

  ‘The mob?’ Vesta hoisted her handbag further up her forearm.

  Mirabelle thought for a moment. ‘Poor Sister Taylor,’ she said. ‘What I don’t understand is what are they doing at a children’s home in the first place? Or ferrying nurses around?’ Mirabelle took her sunglasses out of her bag and put them on. ‘I’m not sure yet but there’s more than that question. There’s something bigger. And you know, I’m interested – what is the operation that McGregor is working on? He had a picture of that car. And a woman too. So, what exactly is he on to?’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The hardest victory is over yourself

  Much as she wanted to return to the children’s home, Mirabelle couldn’t stand up the doctor two nights in a row, and it was getting late. Vesta disappeared in the direction of Mrs Treadwell’s house and Mirabelle walked right along the front, watching so many clouds form ahead of her that, for the first time in weeks, the evening sun disappeared behind them, leaving the promenade looking gloomy.

  As she slipped into her flat to get changed, the cogs in her mind clicked one way and another. It wasn’t news that there were organised gangs of criminals in Brighton – she’d come up against more than one before. Nor was it news that there was an easy accommodation between the police force and some of the gangsters – tentacles of connection that, among other things, kept Jinty and the girls out of jail. Only the year before, McGregor had been banned from taking action against an illegal gambling operation. Gangs down from London made it their business to be well connected and to smooth over their operations as much as they could. What the world didn’t see, the world didn’t comment on, and in exchange for good odds, or women, or black-market goods, or simply for the greater good, the police were prepared to turn a blind eye. Nobody liked a petty official who enforced the law without discretion. In frustration, McGregor had ended up sanctioning the vigilante action that fell into place when the law didn’t abide by itself. That’s how poor Freddy had ended up dead.