Superintendent Alan McGregor took the stairs to the office at a lick, and burst into McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery without knocking. Inside, Mirabelle Bevan and Vesta Lewis looked up from the paperwork strewn across their desks. Vesta smiled.
‘Good morning.’ She got up to put on the kettle.
Without indulging the niceties, McGregor launched himself in Mirabelle’s direction. He slammed down a copy of the Argus, the early edition. ‘They’ve given it to Robinson,’ he said. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Mirabelle cast her hazel eyes over the headline, which declared ‘Murder in Portslade’. Behind her, Vesta turned on the tap and let the water run.
‘I don’t want any damn tea,’ McGregor snapped. Vesta turned off the tap and, in the same moment, Mirabelle looked up in an icy stare. Poor manners were not acceptable in the Brills Lane office no matter what might have happened to get the superintendent worked up. ‘I’m sorry.’ He recovered his equilibrium. ‘It’s been a difficult morning. I walked out of the station and came straight here. You’re the only one who can help.’
He proffered the paper. Mirabelle nodded at Vesta to acknowledge the apology. Vesta fiddled with the buttons on her cardigan. Mirabelle shrugged off her friend’s inattention and leaned over to read the story – a young housewife stabbed in her sleep. Her husband had been taken into custody. There was a picture of a cosy-looking brick house and another of the couple, titled ‘Mr and Mrs Quinn on their wedding day.’ In it, Mrs Quinn gazed into the eye of the camera, her white dress framing her tidy figure, her hair coiffed elegantly in a chignon and her lips set in an easy smile. It struck Mirabelle that photographs of murder victims were always strange because they hadn’t a clue what was going to happen. With the hindsight of a dead body, it seemed odd that they had simply got on with their lives – taking holidays, attending christenings, or, like Mrs Quinn, clutching her new husband’s arm.
‘You’re the detective superintendent,’ she said. ‘If you don’t want Robinson on the case, can’t you ask for it to be assigned to someone else? It seems like you want it, Alan.’
McGregor’s eyes burned. ‘They won’t give it to me. And Robinson has hauled in Phil Quinn for questioning. Straight off on the wrong tack.’
‘Well, the husband is the most likely suspect.’ Mirabelle lifted the paper as if it underlined her point.
‘Quinn didn’t do it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know him. And, worse, I know Robinson. The lazy so-and-so won’t look beyond the obvious. Someone’s framing Phil, don’t you see?’
‘Why would anyone want to do that?’
‘If I knew . . .’ McGregor sounded exasperated.
‘And how can you be so sure that this friend of yours didn’t have a hand in the poor woman’s death?’ Mirabelle turned the page as she read the rest of the story. ‘According to this, he’d have had to have slept through someone stabbing the poor woman in the bed next to him. It doesn’t seem likely.’
‘Phil Quinn’s on the square.’
Mirabelle raised a quizzical eyebrow. She didn’t like Masonic terms. Both she and Superintendent McGregor had had a run-in with the Brighton Lodge a couple of years before and she still found the terminology Masons used, suspect. ‘How do you know Mr Quinn? Exactly?’
‘I’ve known him for years.’
Mirabelle waited. McGregor hadn’t answered her question. Vesta leaned against the sink and slowly crossed her arms. The shocking pink of her nail lacquer stood out against her dark woollen cardigan. This discussion was highly irregular. She was enjoying it tremendously.
‘I know him from back home,’ McGregor admitted. ‘I’ve known him since I was a kid. In Scotland.’
‘And he ended up living in Brighton too?’
‘Phil was here when I came down. A friendly face. We were in the same year at school but we lost touch afterwards. He moved to the south coast after the war. He served in the Logistic Corps. He was an army mechanic. Once the fighting was over he went in with a couple of other guys. You know Hove Cars?’
‘The taxi company?’
‘That’s Phil.’
Mirabelle eyed McGregor. They had been involved with each other for, well, she couldn’t say exactly how long. The before and after of it seemed to have merged lately and it was impossible to pin down precisely when their affair had started. The superintendent had never mentioned this man.
‘If he’s such a good friend, how come I’ve never met him?’
McGregor shrugged. ‘We only see each other now and then. You know me. I’m hardly the sociable type. It’s like that, isn’t it, with old friends? You just pick up where you left off. And it’s not as if I’m the only one who knows him, I mean that’s what I said when they wouldn’t give me the case. Lots of blokes on the force know Phil. My old boss used to say hired cars were the pumping blood of the city. Taxis and coppers go hand in hand. Every man on the force knows Phil Quinn – from beat bobbies up.’
‘Are you saying your friend is a police informant?’
McGregor shifted. ‘Nothing so formal as that, Mirabelle, but yes, Phil always helps if he can. And Hove Cars don’t only run taxis. They’ve got a couple of Rollers for weddings. The Grand uses them as a chauffeur service. They’ve pretty much got Brighton tied up. Phil Quinn loved his wife. He was crazy about her. Can you imagine what it must be like, losing her like this and then being banged up, subjected to Robinson’s puerile interrogation?’
Mirabelle folded the newspaper smartly. ‘Well, I suppose our first stop will be his business partners, if you want to bring me along.’
McGregor shook his head. ‘That’s the trouble. I can’t be seen to be part of this. I’m sorry to ask you. I know it’s irregular. Wrong, even. But you’re so good at this kind of thing.’
A smile played around Mirabelle’s lips as she realised what he was asking. It wasn’t that she was gratified in any way by the murder, but still. ‘Alan, you’ve spent years shooing me away from police business. If I recall, once you locked me up to stop me continuing with an investigation.’ McGregor tried to interject. He always insisted that had been a mistake. Mirabelle raised a solitary finger. She had the air of a headmistress and wasn’t going to be diverted. ‘So, just to be clear, are you saying you want me to look into this case? You want me to undercut Robinson’s investigation? I mean, that’s exactly what you usually object to me doing.’
McGregor quailed. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Look, I’ll help. I just can’t be seen to help. Someone has to have a pair of steady eyes on this and Robinson’s eyes, well, they’re never steady. And you’ve got Vesta. I mean, if you would agree to be part of this, Vesta?’
Vesta nodded. ‘Sure.’
McGregor checked his watch. ‘I have to get back. The chief told me to keep my nose out. He insists I’m too close because of the childhood connection. It’s just nonsense. Like I said, everyone knows Phil.’ He looked sheepish. ‘I lost my rag up at the station. I’m sorry if I came in here at a hundred miles an hour. It’s been a horrible morning.’
Mirabelle paused. She wasn’t going to crow. ‘All right. I just wanted to be clear. Vesta and I will get going straight away. Why don’t I pop in later and let you know how we’re getting on?’
‘I’ll keep my eyes open,’ McGregor promised. Then he retreated. They listened in silence as his footsteps echoed down the stairs.
‘I’ve never seen him in a state like that,’ Vesta said. ‘He didn’t even take off his hat.’
Mirabelle kept her eyes on the door. McGregor had remained cool under pressure on a number of occasions that she would have thought were far more stressful. Vesta was right – it wasn’t like him.
‘We better nip up to Hove Cars,’ she said, pulling on her spring jacket and pinning her hat in place.
Vesta reached for her coat. Lately she hadn’t worn a hat. It messed her hair, which she seemed to dress higher every time Mirabelle took a moment to notice. Today the girl had teased it into some kind of extended bun, which was its tallest incarnation so far. Vesta always looked smart, but Mirabelle couldn’t help feel that no woman was properly attired without millinery.
‘I’m starving,’ Vesta enthused as she did up her buttons. ‘Maybe we could pick up lunch on the way back.’
Hove Cars was located in a scruffy set of mews garages that ran behind Hangleton Road. The condition of the garages was in sharp contrast to the gleaming, well-kept vehicles parked outside them, but then, Mirabelle thought, most customers probably never came to the premises. As the women hovered on the cobbles they took in the peeling paint and the smell of engine oil. Clearly on view through a set of open doors, a shiny black Ford was jacked up with a pair of legs sticking out underneath. Mirabelle was put in mind of her investigations into a smuggling ring the year before. The men in question had brought in African diamonds in the sump oil of a racing vehicle. The investigation had not ended well. She didn’t like to think about it.
The women paused and Mirabelle wondered if Vesta was thinking the same, but it seemed that the girl was simply unsure how to attract the attention of the fellow underneath the car. Eventually, Vesta cleared her throat. When this did not produce the desired result, Mirabelle leaned over. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, directing her voice at the man’s knees. The legs stirred and then a figure shuffled out, revealing a very young mechanic, most likely fresh out of school. The boy smiled as he dusted himself down – a useless gesture as the oil stains on his overalls could not be brushed away.
‘Can I help you, miss?’
‘I’m looking for the person in charge.’
‘Well, if you mean at the garage, I suppose that would be me, what with there being no one else here this morning. Though if you want a car there are a couple of drivers in the office.’
‘Someone left you in charge?’
The boy drew himself up. He skimmed six feet now he was upright. ‘Yeah. What about it?’
‘Is that because of the trouble?’
The boy sniffed and then nodded.
‘I suppose everyone got a terrible fright. A thing like that.’
Once he started, the child seemed eager to talk. ‘The police were here when we opened up. Mr Quinn! Who’d have thought? Mr Gleeson went to get a solicitor. I don’t know what happened to Mr Fourcade. He didn’t even get into his overalls.’
‘Are they the owners?’
‘Them and Mr Quinn. Mates, like, too.’
‘It sounds as if they’re close. I mean if Mr Gleeson is engaging a solicitor on behalf of his friend?’
The boy nodded. ‘I suppose,’ he said.
‘What are you doing to this car?’
‘Changing the oil.’ The boy rubbed his hands together. ‘It’s the only thing I can do. That and check the tyre pressure. It’s an apprenticeship, see. But I’ve only been here a couple of weeks.’
Mirabelle changed tack. ‘Tell me, did you know Mrs Quinn?’
‘I saw her,’ the boy said eagerly. ‘She came down with some sandwiches for her old man last week. She didn’t want him going short.’
‘How very kind of her.’
‘She was a looker. She had one of them fancy sweaters like in the glamour magazines – you know – the ones with shapes on. Do you think they’ll bang up Mr Quinn for it?’
‘That depends on the evidence. What do you think?’
The boy’s eyes burned. ‘I ain’t no grass.’
‘Which would suggest, if you don’t mind me saying, that you think that he did do it.’
A flicker of annoyance crossed his young face. ‘I’m just the apprentice. What do I know?’ He shrugged.
Mirabelle was about to push the boy further when a purring engine sounded and a red Jaguar drew up. A man in a tweed jacket got out and a whiff of aftershave cut through the dense smell of oil that hung around the garage door. He was clearly a more promising prospect, and Mirabelle and Vesta turned towards him as one.
‘Adrian.’ The man nodded as he eyed the women. ‘Go and sweep up inside. Can I help you, ladies?’
Mirabelle offered her hand. ‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan. And this is my business partner, Vesta Lewis.’
‘Tommy Fourcade.’ The man’s handshake was firm. He was patently a fellow who could handle himself. And he was well dressed – the tweed jacket was immaculately cut.
‘We’re here in connection with the murder of Helen Quinn,’ Mirabelle announced.
Mr Fourcade’s tone hardened. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘We’re private detectives,’ Vesta cut in with rather too much enthusiasm. She was silenced by a cold glare from Mirabelle who considered that kind of comment showing off.
‘I see.’ Tommy Fourcade’s green eyes danced as he decided these women were no kind of threat. ‘Lady detectives. Well, well. That’s a new one. You should be worrying about little kids lost on the Prom. Don’t you get your pretty heads in a state about this. We’ve got a bigwig lawyer on Phil’s case. He’ll be out before we know it.’
‘You think he’s innocent, then?’
‘I’ve known Phil Quinn for over ten years. You can take it from me, he didn’t kill his wife.’
‘Did you serve together? It was the Logistics Corps, wasn’t it?’
Fourcade’s jaw tightened. ‘You’re well informed. Look, Phil loved Helen. He wouldn’t have hurt her in a million years.’
‘Someone hurt her, Mr Fourcade.’
‘Well, whoever did it, they’ll pay. Don’t worry about that.’ His tone hardened again, only barely masking a threat. ‘Once we’ve got Phil out, we’ll find the bastard.’
‘Do you know who it was?’ Mirabelle pressed.
‘If I did I’d have told the police and Phil wouldn’t be in custody.’
‘Did Mr Quinn have enemies?’
‘No more than any of us. This business isn’t a cakewalk, Miss Bevan. But I’ve never known another firm to murder a fellow’s wife.’
‘Someone killed her. Someone had a reason.’
‘And you think there’s no smoke without fire?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Tommy Fourcade bit his lip as he eyed the women up and down. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘if the police don’t catch whoever did this to Helen, we’ll find them. And, when we find them, we won’t hold back.’
Mirabelle let this comment hang. It was the second time he’d made a threat. ‘Let’s hope they find the murderer soon, then,’ she said.
Tommy nodded in the direction of the open garage door through which Adrian could be seen polishing a set of wrenches. ‘I’ve got to get to work. This ain’t nothing to do with you,’ he said.
A driver walked out of the office, sucking the last smoke from his cigarette before throwing the butt into the gutter. He nodded at Fourcade, got into an Austin and, after pulling on to the road, accelerated in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Vesta lifted her fingers to shield her nose but Mirabelle didn’t move as Mr Fourcade removed his jacket and headed for his overalls. He meant what he’d said, she thought. This murder must be especially awful for someone like him – someone who wanted to feel in control. No wonder he wanted them out of there – women asking questions must be difficult, particularly competent women. But, then, perhaps he was the kind of man who always decided when conversations started and finished. Either way, she and Vesta had been dismissed. Vesta was clearly more accepting of the arrangement. She had already turned towards the street and Mirabelle fell into step behind her. As they mounted the pavement, the sun came out. Further along, a grocer’s boy polished apples and laid them carefully in a neat pile on display. A whiff of hyacinth snaked towards them from the florist’s, mingling with the fresh smell of the fruit. It would be a lovely morning if someone hadn’t died.
‘He seemed very decisive, didn’t he?’ Mirabelle pondered.
‘He was just being loyal to his mate.’
It occurred to Mirabelle that Phil Quinn seemed to inspire tremendous loyalty in his friends. First McGregor and now Tommy Fourcade.
‘Why don’t we pop into that café we passed?’ Vesta suggested. ‘We can chat about it over lunch.’