Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

  Mirabelle applied a slick layer of lipstick in the mirror and thought about Tongdean Avenue, where the women were probably already at work for the evening. She knew there weren’t easy answers to every question. She’d accommodated more than one tricky dilemma during the war. Jack had always talked about the greater good, not as an empty phrase but as the best he could do – a practical solution. ‘The one hundred per cent easy decisions are taken much further down the line,’ he always said. ‘By the time things get to us, we’re lucky if we’re talking seventy/thirty. Morally, I mean.’

  They’d do something bad to avoid something worse. Of course they would. They’d send someone to die, knowing that there was an advantage to be had from it, though she reminded herself, she wasn’t in Whitehall now, with the weight of the Establishment behind her and the world at war. Freddy had died because the police couldn’t touch him and he’d killed another man whose friends weren’t prepared to let that slide. She didn’t entirely blame them, but McGregor should have stepped in – he should have done something. Mirabelle watched the reflection of the clouds darkening in the mirror as she changed. She wondered where she might have put her umbrella. She hadn’t needed it for weeks.

  As she searched in the coat cupboard, she thought that it was difficult to let go – and not only of Jack, but also of that sense of purpose. The sense that a 51/49 decision was worth it. The life she’d built in Brighton. When she thought about it, watching Uma disappear into the back of the navy Jaguar did not feel as if it was for the greater good. Mirabelle remembered the nurse’s head, as she’d seen it in profile, bowed just a little, and Ellen Simpson, standing in the doorway watching her go. Poor Uma – sometime between that day and now, she had tipped over the 50/50 and it hadn’t seemed worth it to her any more. Vesta was worried about the children at the home and, in fairness, Mirabelle had been too, right at the beginning when she’d first met Lali. But the men’s interest was in the nurses, it seemed. It was the nurses who were under pressure and therefore in danger – not the kids.

  As Mirabelle came out of her garden gate, a beat bobby was biding his time at the lamppost.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Bevan,’ he said.

  Mirabelle bit her tongue. ‘Good evening,’ she managed, and smartly turned left, swinging her brolly and striding out for the Old Ship. She wondered if the man reported directly to McGregor.

  There was a chill on the air. She’d worn the wrong jacket, she realised. Now the summer had turned, it almost felt like a relief. As she got closer to town she passed a girl clasping her boyfriend’s jacket around her frame while he, in his shirtsleeves, smoked a cigarette beside her. ‘Come on, Claire, pick it up, love,’ he complained. ‘It’s going to rain.’ A boy at a newsstand had only three copies left of the evening edition. ‘Bumper Summer for Brighton Weddings,’ the stand said. People had been coming to the coast to tie the knot because of the Indian summer. ‘Wedding, madam?’ he gestured in her direction. She inclined her head.

  Turning off the pavement, Mirabelle swept past the doorman. She cast only the most peremptory glance at the red carpet on the staircase and instead turned into the dining room. ‘Miss Bevan,’ the waiter greeted her. He was a slim young man and seemed very eager. ‘The doctor booked your usual table and a suite, I believe. Would you like me to put your jacket in the room for you?’

  Mirabelle felt the corners of her mouth twitch. ‘Yes please,’ she smiled, as if she had known. The boy took her things and pulled out the chair at the window table.

  ‘I’ll have a martini, please. As dry as you like.’

  Distracted by the prospect of staying the night, she daydreamed for a moment about Mayfair. She wondered if the flat that Chris had in mind had a view of the park. It would be strange waking up without the gentle motion of the sea within sight. All summer Mirabelle had slept with the windows open, the sound of the water on the pebbles bringing her slowly to consciousness most mornings.

  The martini arrived. Mirabelle sipped. It was icy and delicious. Another two tables were seated – both couples, now studying the menu avidly. She checked her watch.

  The shadows next to the table shifted a little. ‘Are you on your own?’ The woman’s voice was familiar. Mirabelle turned in her chair. Jinty wore another taffeta cocktail dress – this time tailored in black. Her eyes were as sparkling as the diamond studs in her ears.

  ‘I’m waiting for my doctor. Would you like a drink?’

  Jinty slipped into Chris’s seat. Outside, the light was fading from the sky. The streetlights had come on along the front and the strings of bulbs on the pier glistened against the darkness. A spit of rain appeared on the window.

  ‘I’ll have one of those,’ Jinty motioned at the waiter, gesturing towards Mirabelle’s martini with a sweep of her elegantly manicured nails. ‘Well, this is cosy,’ she said. Mirabelle breathed in the cloud of oriental perfume that wafted across the table.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re familiar with a chap in a blue Jaguar?’ she asked.

  Jinty smiled. ‘You’re really on the case, aren’t you?’

  ‘Mobster?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Friend of Gerry Bone’s?’

  ‘Mmm. Really, Mirabelle, I don’t know why you’re always banging on about the most awful people. Do you like your men rough? It’s a fascination, isn’t it? A fetish? You can tell me if it is, you know.’

  This time the waiter brought a small dish of salted crackers, which he laid between the women before discreetly disappearing.

  ‘Are you meeting anybody special?’ Mirabelle enquired.

  ‘They’re always special,’ Jinty said smoothly as she lifted her glass. ‘That conference is still on. They’re here for days. Did you sort out those nurses?’

  ‘Oh. Liars every one. You were right.’

  The women clicked the rims of their cocktails. ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Jinty. ‘It’s the earnest professions you need to look out for – the ones who think they’re doing good. People think we’re dodgy – the loose women, that is. But in my experience, we’re the ones who are up front about what we do. I suppose that might go for debt collectors as well, if you want it to.’

  ‘Oh no. I play my cards as close to my chest as a nun.’ Mirabelle’s eyes twinkled.

  ‘I bet you do.’

  Mirabelle leaned in. ‘Jinty,’ she asked, ‘I have to ask – do you know why he died? Gerry Bone, I mean?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What do you mean, not really?’

  ‘We’re not all in it together, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s not a club. I’m like you, Belle. I’m watching from the outside – closer maybe, but I work with them, that’s all.’ Mirabelle was about to object but then she remembered Julie Turpin’s death. People didn’t discuss things with the people around them.

  ‘I can guess what’s going on,’ Jinty continued. ‘I can surmise from comments or what people do. That’s all.’ She sipped her drink. ‘So I don’t know. Not really.’

  ‘What do you surmise, then?’

  Jinty put down her glass and laid her hands flat on the white tablecloth. ‘About Gerry? He didn’t follow orders. He was lazy by nature. I mean, turning up like he did at the house those times – he did that because he thought it would be easy. Not that it worked. I’ve heard a bit here and a bit there – Gerry was the kind of guy who took shortcuts. Thinking about it, maybe he wasn’t too bright. Mobsters aren’t all Neanderthals, you know. I mean, the guys in charge are smart and they’re dedicated to what they do – to getting it right.’ She raised a finger and tapped the side of her head. ‘Bone pissed them off. I reckon he took one shortcut too many.’

  ‘So someone strangled him and flung him into the sea?’

  ‘Probably one of his mates, or someone he knew, at any rate. An inside job.’

  ‘And you trust these people?’ Mirabelle let a long breath out through her mouth. ‘Jinty, I worry for you.’

  ‘I don’t trust anybody. But I coul
dn’t run my business without these guys unless we went back to the old days of having a pimp. It’s my body, Belle. Mine. And this way nobody gets to tell me what to do with it.’

  Mirabelle was about to take issue with this, when the door to the restaurant swung open. She was, she realised, acutely aware of who came in because she was waiting for Chris. The man who burst through the doors, however, wasn’t Chris Williams. He was short and overweight and was pulling on a thick cigar as if his life depended on it. Jinty smiled at him and the waiter moved towards the table. Mirabelle thought it must be awful not being able to choose your customers.

  ‘Get your coat, Jinty, gal,’ the man said in a low voice. ‘Now.’

  Jinty languidly looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got a customer in less than ten minutes, Tony,’ she said. ‘I can’t just go off.’

  Mirabelle felt relieved for the girl – hopefully her customer would be more attractive. Tony puffed on his cigar again and leaned towards her, putting one hand on the table. ‘Now look,’ he said, ‘I don’t want a scene. We’re pulling out. They sent me to get you.’

  ‘I’m working,’ Jinty insisted.

  ‘Sir,’ the young waiter tried to intervene. Tony raised his eyes in the boy’s direction and his expression stopped the interruption dead, as ineffective as a sparrow tweeting instructions to a bull. ‘Fetch me a brandy,’ Tony said. ‘A double.’

  He looked around, his gaze lighting on a vacant chair that he pulled over to Mirabelle’s table and, taking off his hat, he sat down.

  ‘This is my friend, Belle,’ Jinty said.

  ‘Charmed,’ Tony growled, without looking in Mirabelle’s direction.

  Jinty giggled. ‘You’re the worst,’ she said.

  Tony smiled, revealing a lower set of teeth that were crusted in yellow. ‘Maybe that’s why they sent me. It’s not a request.’

  ‘Well, I don’t take orders from you guys. I have a customer waiting and we have an arrangement. You’re out of order.’

  The waiter placed Tony’s glass in front of him and hovered momentarily. Tony reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins, which he thrust into the boy’s hand. The waiter disappeared again as Tony lifted the glass to his nose and took a sniff. Mirabelle tried not to laugh. It seemed impossible, amid the fug of cigar smoke, that he’d be able to smell anything.

  ‘Armagnac,’ he said. ‘Reminds me of France.’ He swilled the dark liquor around the glass, held it up to the light, and then downed the double in two steady gulps. ‘I’ve got the car waiting,’ he said, lifting a key from his pocket. ‘I don’t want to have to drag you out of here by the hair.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘All right,’ Jinty finished her martini. She pushed back her chair.

  ‘Look,’ said Mirabelle, ‘you don’t have to …’

  But Jinty raised a single finger.

  ‘If you want me to come, you’re going to have to make me,’ she said, grasping the knife at Chris’s place setting. ‘You’re strong all right. I suppose it depends on how quickly the police arrive. Because they’ll call them. And I’ll hang on to anything I can. As long as I can. I’ll stab you with this and I’ll scream the fucking place down. Go on.’

  Tony considered this.

  ‘The police will get you,’ he snarled, ‘if you don’t come. You know that.’

  ‘We pay the rozzers separately, remember? Your little world’s falling apart, Tony. Not mine; and if you guys quit town, I’ll just need someone new for protection. That’s how it looks to me.’

  Mirabelle noticed the man’s leg tensing as if he was about to attack. She decided she would grab the bottle of wine from the neighbouring table and hit him with it if he went for Jinty. She was about to spring into action, when he got to his feet and stepped back from the table.

  ‘You little bitch. We’d have seen you started fresh,’ he growled, and then he turned and put on his hat as he walked out.

  Jinty slipped her seat back towards the table. Her jaw was set. She checked over her shoulder. The other diners hadn’t noticed or, if they had, they were ignoring what had happened. The girl wrapped her fingers around her empty glass.

  ‘I suppose I owe you an explanation,’ she said.

  Mirabelle didn’t move. She felt shocked.

  ‘Well, it’s Birmingham,’ Jinty said. ‘If you must know, they’re shipping out to Birmingham. They’ve sold it to Rene of course. She thinks it sounds marvellous. Not me. The minute she gets there she’ll have a pimp again – that’s what they’re after. Easy income.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mirabelle realised her hand was shaking too much to be able to pick up her martini.

  ‘They’re pulling out – the mob boys you were asking about. Apparently the game’s up.’

  ‘What game?’

  Jinty groaned. ‘God, you’re dense sometimes,’ she snapped as she pulled her clutch bag towards her. ‘Bad Luck Bone’s Lazy Bastard Blues. That game. They’ll all end up hanged. The game’s up. So they’re leaving town for the time being – hoping it’ll blow over, I guess. Nobody wants to get hanged, do they?’

  ‘That’s an occupational hazard, isn’t it? For men like that?’

  ‘Not without a body it isn’t.’

  ‘But Bone’s body turned up,’ Mirabelle objected.

  Jinty reached over and drank the rest of Mirabelle’s martini. ‘Jesus, Mirabelle! Mobsters don’t count. You don’t know anything, do you? When those guys kill each other, it’s a message as much as anything else. They wanted Bone’s body to be found. They knew the police would never figure out who did it – not exactly – so no one could face charges. But they wanted the body to turn up because they wanted everyone to hear about it. You think another guy will cut corners on disposal again? They said the police surgeon couldn’t even establish cause of death, poor Gerry was so, so …’

  ‘Degraded,’ said Mirabelle.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you mean disposal? You said “cut corners on disposal”,’ Mirabelle pressed.

  Jinty pushed away the glass and got to her feet. ‘I have a client in five minutes,’ she said. ‘I’m going to the powder room.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes

  As Jinty swept out of the dining room, Mirabelle peered out of the window. She couldn’t make out which of the passing vehicles was Tony’s car, so she strained to see if Chris’s car might have rounded the corner at the bottom of Old Steine. She didn’t feel like eating, she realised. Not any more. When she checked her watch she calculated that the doctor was late by more than half an hour, which didn’t seem like him; though she admitted, she didn’t know him very well. She told herself it would be fine and steadied her hands. The woman at the next table laughed – a tinkling sound that cut through her mood. Something was afoot tonight. Maybe, when Chris got here, he’d be able to tell her exactly what it was.

  Then she saw him – just an outline in the middle distance, washed yellow by the streetlights. The squat figure of Tony and another, taller man, walking back towards the hotel with a sense of purpose. They had parked on the other side of the road. Tony was still puffing his cigar and the other man had something in his hand. Mirabelle thought it might be a coiled piece of rope, but it was difficult to tell from so far away. Tony raised his arm, pointing at the window of the dining room. Mirabelle pulled back from the glass, her heart racing. The waiter hovered.

  ‘They’re coming back,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘Call the police.’ The boy didn’t move. ‘Now!’ she snapped and, without thinking any further, she took off, through the restaurant door, past reception, and towards the ladies’ toilets to the rear of the building. She burst through the door so violently that it smacked into the wall behind. Inside, there was a plush suite – a powder room had been installed, lined with mirrors in gold leaf, rococo frames. A row of glass vases held – alternately – flowers, cotton wool and tiny wrapped lemon boiled
sweets. The room next door contained the lavatories. Her heels sank into thick, pale carpet. ‘Jinty!’ she called. ‘Are you in here?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  The girl was in one of the cubicles behind a thick mahogany door. Mirabelle swept through. ‘He’s coming back. Tony’s coming back,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, hell.’ Jinty’s voice seemed to echo off the tiles.

  ‘Come on.’ Mirabelle checked over her shoulder. ‘You’ve got to get out of here. He’s with another man.’

  The sound of the lavatory flushing preceded the lock being drawn back. Jinty emerged, straightening her dress.

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ Mirabelle snapped.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘You introduced me, thanks very much. He knows I know you. Do you think he’s going to be reasonable with either of us?’

  Jinty sighed. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘That was stupid of me. Where are they?’

  ‘I saw them coming towards the front door. They don’t know you’re in here but they’ll figure it out. There’s only so many places to look for a woman in an hotel and the waiter will tell them you walked out alone. I expect he’s worse than useless.’

  ‘Well, if they’re going to snatch me, they have to get past the doorman, at least. He’s ex-forces. You just need to hide, that’s all. I meant what I said. I’ll scream the place to a halt. They’ll hear me in Hastings.’

  Mirabelle was impressed with the girl’s fighting spirit, though being up for a fight didn’t mean you’d necessarily win it. ‘I think it would be best if it didn’t go that far,’ she said. ‘He’s the kind of man who’d want to hurt you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, Tony’s a pussy cat. Lots of those mob guys are pussy cats, you know, once you get them in the sack.’ She sounded woozy. Mirabelle peered into her eyes. The pupils were extraordinarily open.

  ‘Jinty, what did you just take in there?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jinty laughed.

  ‘That’s not the booze talking. What else have you taken?’