‘It’s just a little sharpener, that’s all. For the action, you know. To relax me.’
‘You have to sober up now.’ Mirabelle put her hand on Jinty’s arm. ‘Look, these men mean business. There isn’t time for bravado, and relaxed is the worst thing you can be. If they take you, how do you think you’re going to get away? You’re not thinking straight. Not being afraid isn’t brave, it’s foolish in this situation. Your life is at stake.’
Jinty squinted slightly. ‘Oh. Oh no,’ she said, panic rising in her tone.
Mirabelle scanned the lavatory’s back wall for some kind of exit, but there was only an air vent high up and it was no more than six inches square.
Jinty crossed her arms. The tension was palpable, her mind evidently not clear, but, Mirabelle hoped, clearing. In the other room, the door opened suddenly and both women jumped as two young girls burst in, giggling and prodding each other. ‘Your daddy said so,’ one taunted the other. ‘And don’t think I won’t tell him.’ They fell on the glass jar with the sweets and then skipped happily into the back room and disappeared into two of the cubicles, slamming and locking the doors with extraordinary synchronisation.
‘There must be back stairs,’ Jinty hissed. ‘I can just hail a cab and go home. They’re leaving, after all. I’ll just take myself out of the way.’
Mirabelle’s gaze was hard. ‘You can’t go home. That’s the first place they’ll look. Look, you need to disappear, Jinty. You’ll probably need to disappear for a while – a few days, anyway. And don’t take a taxi if you don’t want to be followed. Never.’
‘But …’ Jinty began to object again, but Mirabelle ignored her, instead pushing open the last cubicle in the row. There was a small window halfway up the wall. She smiled. Then she put down the toilet seat and climbed on to it, feeling for the catch on the casement. A stream of cool air flowed in, along with the smell of the damp seaside. ‘It opens to the rear,’ she reasoned out loud. ‘It’s a laneway at the back, I think. Come along. We can get out this way.’
‘But …’ Jinty repeated, her eyes on the doorway. ‘They work for me.’
Mirabelle climbed down and squared up in front of the girl with her hands on Jinty’s elbows. ‘These men want to take you with them. To Birmingham,’ she smiled. ‘Now, you don’t fancy that, do you?’
‘But I’m the customer. They’re just contracted, that’s all.’
‘You want to whip out your contract with Tony, do you? Or ring your lawyer? Or just have an argument? You have to trust me here. You’re not compos mentis.’
Jinty’s breath was uneven. She was clearly having difficulty processing what was going on.
‘You took them on because they didn’t play by the rules, right? Well, surprise! They don’t play by the rules. This game of yours isn’t easy-come-easy-go. It’s not a savings scheme to get you out to a nice village and the Women’s Institute. It’s money, don’t you see? And power. I need you to trust me. If I’m wrong, you’ll lose a couple of nights’ earnings. If I’m right, we’re saving your life.’
Jinty was about to say something when, as coordinated as when the girls had gone in, the toilets flushed in unison and two doors opened. The girls slunk out, visibly more subdued, avoiding the women’s eyes. Neither so much as glanced at the wash hand-basins.
‘Come on,’ said Mirabelle. ‘They will have checked the restaurant now. It won’t take them long. We need to get out of here.’
Jinty seemed to accept this. She climbed on to the toilet and Mirabelle jimmied her up and through the window. It was awkward but Jinty made it. There was a crash on the other side. Mirabelle jumped on to the toilet and peered through the hole. Jinty had landed on some old boxes and knocked over a rubbish bin – perhaps, Mirabelle considered, it was best the girl was a little bit relaxed. She’d have landed more safely. Mirabelle followed. She pulled herself through, making a more graceful descent, finding her footing, tiptoe, on a bin. She closed the window behind her.
‘Now what?’ Jinty sounded cross. ‘My client will be down by now.’
‘Forget your client. Forget going back to Tongdean Avenue. They are going to clear you out and all of your girls.’
‘I should warn the others.’ At least, Mirabelle thought, the gravity of the situation was sinking in.
‘Jinty, it’s too late. We can try – but once you’re safe, OK? You look far too identifiable. We need to get you some new clothes. Secondly, we need to find you somewhere to hole up. To hide.’
‘You’ve done this before?’
‘Not exactly. But I know how. Come on.’
At the end of the laneway, Mirabelle peered round the corner. There was no sign of Tony or his friend, just a Friday-night street in the September rain. A woman held her coat over her head to protect her hair as she ran up the other side of the pavement.
‘This way,’ Mirabelle pulled Jinty by the arm.
Halfway up the street, Mirabelle cut into a pub, still pulling Jinty behind her. It was warm inside and the flood of conversation hit them in a babble. There were several couples sitting at dark wooden tables, nursing their drinks over cigarettes. More people crowded around the bar. Mirabelle hovered next to a lively group. One of the girls smiled her way.
‘Out for the night?’ Mirabelle started the conversation.
Jinty kept her eyes on the door, as if she was only now figuring out there was a danger she might have been followed.
‘Yes,’ the girl said cheerfully. ‘You?’
Mirabelle leaned in. ‘We’re actually on the run and we could use a bit of a hand. My friend here is avoiding her boyfriend. He turned nasty on her.’
‘Oh dear,’ the girl said. ‘A bad lot, is he?’
‘We got away from the other pub,’ Mirabelle confided. ‘I was wondering if you could help us?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Do you like Jinty’s dress?’
The girl smiled. ‘It’s lovely. Very smart.’
‘Fancy swapping? And the shoes.’
Jinty stared at Mirabelle, clearly furious. The dress was worth a lot of money. It was the kind of thing you’d only get in a London boutique and she’d picked up the heels at Selfridges. Mirabelle brooked no argument. The girl looked down at her own dress – plain cotton with a repeat pattern of hollyhocks. She’d probably made it herself. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ve always fancied being a bit of a glamour puss.’
They retreated to the lavatories.
‘Take off the jewellery,’ Mirabelle hissed at Jinty, who began to fumble with her earrings as the girl slipped out of her cotton dress. Jinty sighed as it appeared over the top of the closed toilet door and her cheap blue pumps appeared below. ‘Go on!’ Mirabelle’s tone was insistent. Jinty undid her zip and slipped off the black taffeta, swapping her outfit. The girl emerged, glowing. She inspected herself in the mirror, her gaze falling to the black heels. It was a considerable transformation.
‘I look a smasher!’ she said. ‘Thanks a bunch.’
‘He won’t spot my friend so easily now.’
‘I suppose not. Well, thanks again,’ she said, and bounced out of the room.
Jinty studied herself in the mirror. She turned to the side, which clearly from her expression did not improve the effect.
‘Put down your hair,’ Mirabelle instructed.
‘I don’t wear my hair down.’
‘Exactly. And rub off that lipstick.’
Jinty complied. She glared at her reflection. ‘I look like a Lucy from Hangleton,’ she said.
‘That’s good. Now, we need to find somewhere for you to lie low. Somewhere you haven’t stayed before.’
‘Well, that’s most decent hotels counted out.’
Mirabelle smiled. ‘I suppose it is.’
They cut back through the pub and out on to the street, walking in silence in the direction of Old Steine and crossing the road. The passing cars made a swishing sound on the wet tarmac as they cut up St James’s Street. The shops were closed, their windows d
ark. Only the pubs shone light on to the reflective surface of the pavement. Mirabelle wondered if the cold would sober up her friend, who was walking with her head bowed, staring at the pavement. They came to a halt at the top of Superintendent McGregor’s street. Mirabelle reached into her handbag and brought out a five-pound note. Jinty took it.
‘Don’t pick the nicest one,’ she pointed out his house. ‘Pick one of the other B&Bs. Book in as Lucy Hangleton, maybe. Take a room and stay in it – don’t go out.’
‘Lucy Hangleton?’ Jinty let out an unexpected giggle.
‘It’s a good name, as a matter of fact – it sounds ordinary. I’ll come and find you in a few days once the coast is clear. I promise. And I’ll ring your house, just in case. I’ll try to tell the others. I’ll leave a warning with Doris – they won’t take her, will they? Don’t you worry.’
Jinty’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I guess I need guys to keep my guys in line to keep my guys in line,’ she said. She hugged Mirabelle.
‘Will it take long to wear off?’ Mirabelle asked.
Jinty shook her head. ‘A couple of hours usually. It just numbs me a bit. Thanks,’ she said. ‘You’re a pal. I’ll pay you back.’
Mirabelle gave a half-shrug. ‘You understand what’s going on, don’t you?’
‘Yeah. They’re on the run. They’ll be gone. You’re probably right – it’s best to get out of the way.’
Mirabelle didn’t like to say, but she’d realised there was more than that. It was best not to elaborate. The most important thing was to get Jinty out of sight.
‘Bad Luck Bone …’ she started.
‘Well, I’ll cover myself twofold from now on. This is a lesson, Belle. Jesus – some lesson.’
‘No. I mean, you walked away when I asked before. But do you know what Gerry Bone did with the bodies – the ones he didn’t dispose of properly?’
‘What?’
‘What you said in the restaurant at the hotel. You suggested there were other bodies and you said his job was disposal. It’s not a surprise exactly – only, I wondered, what did he do with them?’
Jinty took this in. ‘They’re supposed to get rid of them on the Downs. You can bury almost anything up there. There’s acres of space – people have been using it for ever. But I don’t know what Bone did with the ones he didn’t take up there. Except they were in town. That’s what I surmised, anyway.’
‘Was it many bodies, do you think?’
Jinty shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so. It’s harder to kill people than you think and mostly not necessary. Mind you, I wouldn’t have thought they’d have come for me like they have. Killing people is the last resort, isn’t it?’
Mirabelle wasn’t so sure. Jinty shuddered.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘It’s cold in the evenings now. Stay inside.’
The girl set off down the street. Mirabelle watched as she passed McGregor’s house and then turned up the path of a bed-and-breakfast place three doors down. The ‘Vacancies’ sign swayed in the wind as she rang the bell. The door opened, Jinty walked inside and the door closed.
Mirabelle lingered. The rain pinched at her skin. She rubbed her arms. The summer jacket wouldn’t have been much help, she told herself, thinking of the suite at the Old Ship. Of dinner. It was too late for all that now. The lights in McGregor’s room on the first floor were out. The curtains hadn’t been drawn. Once Jinty was out of sight, Mirabelle opened the garden gate and rang the bell. Betty Brownlee came to the door, the hallway lit warm yellow behind her.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you. Well, he isn’t here.’
‘I know,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I came about Rene.’
An expression of uncertainty flickered across Miss Brownlee’s face. It was the first time Mirabelle had ever seen her look anything other than already decided.
‘You have to ring the house at Tongdean Avenue,’ Mirabelle said. ‘There’s been trouble tonight. If you can get hold of Rene, tell her to tell her friends that Jinty’s left town already and they should do the same. Don’t bring them here. Do you understand?’
‘I wouldn’t let those women over the door,’ Brownlee spat.
‘They’re in real danger, Miss Brownlee. Please. Do you have the number? Can you do it now?’
Brownlee hesitated. Behind her the sound of laughter emanated from the dining room.
‘It’s more important than McGregor’s guests. I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t.’
The old woman nodded curtly. ‘Well then,’ she said.
The door closed. Mirabelle turned back down the pathway. Then she remembered something – a newspaper report that came into her mind as if she had been searching for it for hours and she had simply turned to the right page. It was the name of the woman whose picture had been on the wall of McGregor’s bedroom, right beside the navy Jaguar.
‘Mary Needle,’ she said out loud. Mirabelle had read about the case in the Argus and the story had made the London Times too. Mary had gone missing on a trip from the capital right at the start of the heatwave. It must have been early in May. Mirabelle hadn’t taken an interest. It seemed odd to her now, but then she had been numbed for months, or, at least, that’s what it had felt like. Now she was alive again. She tried to remember. The police staged a search but there wasn’t a single trace of the woman. Several investigative reporters had got involved, trying to figure out her movements, but then they discovered that Mary wasn’t just any woman down from London – she was a prostitute. ‘Lola,’ Mirabelle whispered. That had been her working name. The press had discarded the story after that. What was McGregor doing with a picture of Mary Needle? she wondered, looking over her shoulder up at the dark window above. What had she missed?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Courage is knowing what to fear
Back at Old Steine, Mirabelle continued to walk away from town. She had made a plan, such as it was, and was determined to see it through. On the streets opposite, she noticed several Black Marias going back and forth in the direction of the police station at Bartholomew Square. None of them was running their flashing lights. She squinted to see who might be inside but couldn’t make out any faces, and she wondered if they were coming from Wellington Road police station and, if they were, what was McGregor up to? She’d find out, she told herself, but first she had something to check. Jinty and her friends weren’t the only women in danger this evening – not by a long chalk. Further up, she managed to flag down a taxi.
‘Busy night?’ she asked the driver as she slipped into the back seat.
‘No, miss. Not really.’
‘Noticed anything much? I saw there were quite a few police cars out.’
The man regarded her in the rear-view mirror. ‘I expect we’ll read about it tomorrow in the Argus,’ he said. Silently she cursed her luck – a careless-talk-costs-lives type. Then she checked out of the back window, just in case. It felt as if Tony was only over her shoulder. The night was hooded in menace and she knew they’d had a close call, but the street was quiet for this time of the evening and there was no sign of trouble.
‘Going home?’ the driver asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘West Drive, please.’
He dropped her at number seventeen and she didn’t tip him. As he drove off, Mirabelle made for the front door and rang the bell. There was no reply. She stepped back, hesitating a moment. The windows were in darkness – at the front of the place anyway. Decisively, she nipped down the alleyway and found the same foothold in the bricks she had used to hoist herself up only a few nights before. Then she peered over the top of the gate. The house was dark to the rear this time, and the side gate was as securely bolted as ever.
‘Damn,’ she murmured under her breath.
As she squinted into the darkness, however, she realised that the garden had changed. Some of the plants were missing. It was difficult to tell because the moon was obscured by cloud, but it looked as if somebody had harvested certain areas – the little
greenhouse was practically empty. Mirabelle stepped down on to the paving stones and retraced her steps to the front of the house, considering her options. She decided she didn’t have many. The curtains were still drawn in the front room, so methodically she checked the catches. Sure enough, one of them was undone, and the window pulled open smoothly. As she slipped over the sill and on to the carpet, she suddenly wondered why there hadn’t been a spate of cat burglaries in Brighton over the summer – the papers were headlining the boom in weddings, but the hot weather probably had other effects too. Everyone’s windows had been open – or at least unlocked – all over town. It was too easy.
The house was silent. She crept into the hallway, cursing the sound of her footsteps and considering switching on the light. The place felt abandoned. ‘Hello,’ she called. There was no reply, so she snapped on the tall lamp beside the hall table. A jacket lay strewn on a chair. The vestibule door had been left open. Mirabelle sighed. She started to check the house room by room to see if there was any sign of a struggle. Uma might not have put up a fight, she thought, but if Tony or any of his friends had arrived, Ellen would have.
The room at the back of the house was tidy, the books still piled on the side table and the overgrown, lush plants in their pots. In the kitchen there was a faint smell of cumin seeds but nothing out of place. There was no sign of the cat. Perhaps they had managed to take the cat with them, she thought – that and the plants from outside. It was an odd set of priorities, but it suggested at least a measured departure rather than a kidnapping. She was about to go up to the bedrooms and try to figure out if the women had had time to pack, when the doorbell sounded.
The noise cut shrilly into the silence like a jangling alarm. Mirabelle’s stomach turned over. She regretted turning on the light, suddenly acutely aware that she was alone and nobody knew where she was. Trying to keep her breathing regular, she grabbed a sturdy, carved wooden ornament from the hall table, in case she needed to defend herself. Then she crept up to the door and, from the side, peered through the thick, twisted glass. She let out a sigh of relief. The image was indistinct but it was a woman. Mirabelle put down her weapon and opened the door.
Indian Summer Page 25
