The light was just beginning to fade from the sky as Mirabelle approached the side entrance of Bartholomew Square police station where Phil Quinn was still being held despite the best efforts of the solicitor his friends had engaged. Superintendent McGregor had arranged a cloak-and-dagger rendezvous. The desk sergeant owed him one and Mirabelle wanted to meet Phil Quinn. Arrangements had been set for the evening – after Robinson and his team had left and McGregor was safely out of the way.
Mirabelle hovered in the doorway. It was odd how the noises on the street changed at dusk – the heavy swing of a pub door that you’d never notice at midday was somehow impossible to ignore after seven o’clock. Especially at this time of year. It was still too early for the mass of tourists that populated Brighton all summer. There weren’t any buskers yet – no one-man band on the corner at the Kingsway or the fellow who went round the pubs playing his harmonica. No hurdy-gurdy on the corner at the front. Though the days were mild, the evenings in springtime could be bitter. Mirabelle’s jacket was not thick enough. It had been sunny that morning and she had been optimistic. Luckily, she didn’t have to wait. Sergeant Belton, a grey kind of fellow, recently transferred from Brighton’s other police station at Wellington Road, promptly opened the door and let her through. Inside, he turned, waiting for her to say something.
The passage smelled of bleach. It had been a while since Mirabelle had visited the cells at Bartholomew Square. She had been incarcerated here for a few hours several years ago. For that matter, she’d been holed up in Wellington Road, under Belton’s care too. McGregor referred to both these incidents as mix-ups, but Mirabelle had her suspicions.
‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘Superintendent McGregor told you I was coming.’
‘This way.’ Belton swung a brace of keys on his bent finger. ‘I’ve told the lads to take a break. There’s biscuits in the office. We won’t see anyone.’
‘Busy day?’ Mirabelle enquired.
Belton’s grey eyes didn’t flicker. ‘Our busy time is the summer. Lost children. Pickpockets. Misdemeanours. The murders are more regular. One at a time. But you know that, Miss Bevan.’
He’d never liked her. Mirabelle had become inured to the catty comments of McGregor’s colleagues. When the superintendent got the ins and outs of a case wrong he took it on the chin, but most policemen didn’t like being shown up, especially by a woman. The ironic thing, it struck her, was that being right didn’t always help. The victim was still dead. The damage could never be made up in any meaningful way. The most you could hope for was that someone would be punished, and that that person was the one who had perpetrated the crime.
Belton stopped at a closed door. ‘Are you sure you want to see him?’
‘Of course.’
The line of male cells felt oppressive. They were darker and smaller than the female ones. The sergeant slid back the cover on the viewing square and peered inside. ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ he said. ‘A friend of your wife.’
Belton couldn’t help but make a dig. Women weren’t supposed to count, and, when they did, it made him uncomfortable. Smirking now, he picked out a key and opened the door. A slow creak filled the hallway. Inside, against the painted bricks, Phil Quinn was sitting on the edge of his bed. Looking surprisingly dapper, he wore a pair of trousers with a crease down the front and a shirt that was highly starched, as if he was about to set out for a night on the town. Beside him there was a tray – sausage and mash and a mug of tea. Long cold, a ring of grease had congealed around the rim of the plate. As he looked up, he turned his head away, which made it difficult for Mirabelle to get the measure of him. However, it was immediately evident that, though his clothes were pristine, his spirit was in tatters. His eyes, where she caught a glance, were bloodshot and his nose was swollen. He had picked the skin on his fingers till it was dotted with dried blood. Mirabelle felt suddenly as if she’d intruded: as if she was only adding to his humiliation, never mind Belton.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ she said.
Belton stepped back as she moved forwards, as if the two of them were conjoined in this small conspiracy, like figures on a clock tower. Mirabelle listened as his footsteps retreated down the corridor.
‘How do you know Helen?’ Quinn’s Scottish accent was stronger than McGregor’s – his vowels bent out of shape. It made him sound aggressive, but perhaps that didn’t mean anything – it was only the way he spoke.
Mirabelle suppressed the feeling of pity that washed over her. Other people’s grief only reminded her of her own despair when Jack had died all those years ago. The poor man, she thought. He was still talking about his wife in the present tense. ‘I’m sorry. It’s Sergeant Belton’s idea of a joke. Alan McGregor sent me.’
A dismissive noise escaped Quinn’s lips. ‘Can’t make it himself?’
‘He isn’t allowed. He wanted to take your case but because of your long-standing connection . . . you were at school together, weren’t you?’
‘Primary. Alan went to the grammar after the eleven-plus. I was the thick one. Can’t you tell?’
‘Well, he’s asked me to look into things. Inspector Robinson . . .’
‘That idiot!’ Quinn burst out. ‘I said to him, every minute you spend asking me stupid questions is a minute less you’re finding out who killed my wife.’
‘Who do you think did it, Mr Quinn?’
The man’s eyes burned with helpless fury. ‘I have no idea. Helen was wonderful. Everyone loved her. Don’t you think I’ve been going over and over it? She must have been in agony and I was just lying there. Jesus.’
‘The police believe the gin you were drinking was drugged. I wondered if you know who might have had access to do that?’
‘Access?’
‘To the gin? And to the right kind of drugs, whatever they were?’
‘They don’t even know that then? Great. I felt groggy this morning. I thought it was a hangover and the shock. I don’t know who could have done what you’re talking about – drugging a bottle of gin. Stabbing my wife in the stomach. What kind of monster . . . ? It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
Mirabelle reined him in. She needed information and, to get it, he would have to focus. ‘When did you last drink from that bottle?’
‘The night before.’
‘So it must have been tampered with some time on Wednesday? Can you think of who might have visited your house on Wednesday? Was your wife in all day?’
‘I don’t know. I was at work. We’re like everyone else – we leave our door open. Helen’s friendly with the neighbours. The women, anyway. They come in and out.’
‘Do you suspect your neighbours?’
‘Of course not. I don’t know who to suspect. You’d have to be some kind of phantom. Helen never hurt a soul. It’s just evil.’
‘Evil?’
‘What would you call it?’
‘Is your door usually left unlocked at night?’
‘Yes. God help me.’
‘Did the gin taste strange, Mr Quinn?’
He shook his head. ‘We were drunk already. The both of us. I got home around six. We had beer with dinner and then we were dancing.’ He stifled a sob. ‘Helen loved to dance. And to sing along. She was just a kid – a sweet kid.’
‘What time did you go to bed?’
‘Ten, I think. Maybe earlier. We were exhausted. Robinson said she died between one and two in the morning. But I was right next to her. We went to sleep as usual.’ Quinn stared at his hand, turning over the palm. ‘I was there,’ he repeated.
‘The way she died . . .’ It was difficult for Mirabelle to find the words. ‘I mean, you’re right. The stabbing was vicious – evil, you called it . . . Have you any idea why someone might have killed her like that? I mean, that way in particular?’
‘Jesus, no.’
‘Mr Quinn, was your wife pregnant?’
Quinn heaved a sob and his voice broke as he answered. ‘No. I mean, she didn’t say. God, you can’t think that.’
‘There’s no indication. I’m sorry. I only wondered. Why stab her in the stomach?’
‘I don’t know. Why stab her at all? In the heart? At the throat? What difference does it make?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Mirabelle didn’t explain, but how Phil Quinn’s wife died did make a difference. Of course it did. ‘And you can’t think of anyone who would have wanted to see her dead?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Can you think of anyone who would want to see you suffer, Mr Quinn?’
‘By murdering Helen? Look, I’ve told them upstairs. There have been people who have been unpleasant. At work, I mean. We have the odd complaint. A car arriving late or going to the wrong address. It’s my job to negotiate contracts for the garage. Fuel. Insurance. That kind of thing. I cut a good deal. You get the odd guy being chippy about being caught overcharging. But nothing has ever turned nasty.’
‘And there’s nothing else?’
‘You think I’d forget a situation horrible enough to cause someone to drug me and my wife and then stab her to death? I didn’t do it and I don’t know who did. I certainly don’t know why. Some use I am. I’ve been sitting here going over what happened and none of it makes sense. We’re just ordinary people, Helen and I. All I can come up with is, maybe there isn’t a reason. Maybe the person who killed Helen is just mad.’
Mirabelle paused. Murder could be random. Just not usually. But now a picture was emerging and it raised a question she hadn’t yet considered. ‘Do you think, Mr Quinn, it’s odd they killed Helen and they didn’t kill you?’
‘I wish they had.’
Mirabelle didn’t doubt it, but it was important he answered the question properly. ‘Please. It might be key. They went to the trouble to drug both of you, you see. Doesn’t it seem odd they only killed her?’
‘They’d have had to drug both of us. I mean, we’d have fought. I’d have fought. I’d have killed the bastard who was trying to kill Helen. And she was no shrinking violet. Helen would have tried to kill any bastard who was trying to kill me.’
Mirabelle sighed. Maybe this was the best someone could come up with to torture Phil Quinn. If it was, it was working. He looked terrible. He clearly hadn’t eaten and he wouldn’t sleep either. The poor guy didn’t know a thing.
‘My solicitor had these clothes sent in,’ he said, as he picked at his pristine shirt. ‘He said it’s important I look respectable.’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll do my best,’ Mirabelle said and banged on the door to summon Belton.
At length, the sergeant appeared and opened up with a flourish as if the cell was the entrance to the Ritz.
‘Goodbye,’ Mirabelle said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘I’ll do my best to get to the bottom of it.’
Phil Quinn didn’t reply. The sound of the cell being locked sent an odd reverberation down the corridor as if the door might never open again. Belton turned to lead Mirabelle out. At the entrance, he motioned her to wait as the clatter of footsteps in the office above suddenly became louder. As the noise tailed off, he pulled back the snib and pushed the door wide.
‘Case solved then?’
Mirabelle shook her head. It wasn’t going to be that easy. Belton’s grey eyes almost warmed for a moment. He seemed eager. ‘The boys are saying he’ll swing. This kind of crime, he’s bound to.’
‘I hope not, Sergeant. I don’t think he did it.’
‘Well,’ Belton said simply, his tone making it clear what he meant was ‘This man is guilty. No question of it.’ The sergeant had started on the force when he left school. He always thought people were guilty. In fairness, most of the people he came across were. Mirabelle stepped over the threshold on to the square and the sergeant nodded. ‘Goodbye then.’
Mirabelle shuddered as the door closed. From somewhere far off the wind carried the sound of church bells across the cobbles. Pulling her jacket around her, she hardened herself to the chill and turned in the opposite direction from her flat at the Lawns, away from the sea. She had one more call to make this evening and it was inland. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes leaked out of the pubs as she passed and now and then there was the sound of someone singing and the plink plonk of a piano. As she got on to a bus on Queen’s Road, she was glad to be out of the chill. Behind her, a man lit a cigarette and offered her one from the packet.
‘Cold night,’ he commented.
Mirabelle declined, turning towards the window. She wanted to think. In fact, as the city flew past the glass, she couldn’t stop thinking. Helen Quinn’s death was like a knot she was determined to unpick.
After getting off at Hangleton Road, she crossed the street and cut down the mews, where three black Austins were parked outside Hove Cars. The garage doors, where the apprentice had been plying his trade, were closed for the night, but a light was still on in the office. Inside, illuminated in the darkness, a young man sat at a desk, taking incoming calls. The ashtray in front of him was piled high with butts and beside him there was a radio control set. Hove Cars had all the latest gadgets. Opposite the desk, a line of drivers sat on a long bench, reading newspapers. Mirabelle ducked out of sight behind a drum of rainwater as a car turned into the mews. A man got out and proceeded into the office. As he entered, she could make out the murmur of greetings. She sneaked closer to the closed window.
‘All right, John?’
‘Quiet tonight.’
‘Still early.’
Mirabelle checked her watch. It was just after nine. As if on cue with the men’s comments, the telephone rang and the young man picked it up. ‘Hove Cars.’ He listened, scribbling down the details. ‘Five minutes,’ he said as he hung up. ‘Willie, go and pick up at Tongdean, would you, and take the girl down to the Grand?’ This must be a regular booking and in response there was a murmur among the men, a ripple that felt like some kind of joke. The fellow nearest the desk got to his feet and lumbered outside. ‘Keep your hands off the ladies, Willie! Those ones charge, you know,’ one of the others shouted. The jollity was silenced as the phone sounded again and another driver was dispatched to pick up a girl called Ruby at an address on First Avenue. Mirabelle thought of the times she had ordered a car. She’d never once given her Christian name to a dispatcher. It wouldn’t have seemed right. A minute later and another car was called to one of the dance halls. Inside, as the driver departed, the young man got to his feet. He picked a bottle of beer out of the cupboard and, as he did so, Mirabelle realised that the poor fellow had a wooden leg. He was too young to have been injured in service, but perhaps the Blitz had done for him. Your instinct was always to feel sorry for the people who had been hurt, but the truth was they were lucky to get away with their lives. Once, Mirabelle had helped to dig out a woman whose kitchen had collapsed. When they got through the rubble, the old lady was clutching a small terrier. ‘Here,’ she’d said. ‘Take Sammy first.’ It had felt like a miracle, the two of them alive under all the debris. The dispatcher was young – he must have been a child when it happened.
Mirabelle shivered. The later it got, the colder the air became and she’d seen enough to tell what was going on. Stepping on to the cobbles, she rapped on the office door. One of the men got to his feet and opened it.
‘Yes, miss. A car, is it?’
‘To the Arundel guest house.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘It’s not the Grand,’ she added with a smile, just to check the reaction.
The man behind the desk had the grace to look uncomfortable. He fiddled with the radio control set and didn’t meet Mirabelle’s eye. Outside, the driver held the car door and she slipped into the back seat. The cold leather creaked. ‘I didn’t want to walk into town,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘Not with that terrible murder.’
‘Cold night, anyway, miss,’ the man replied as he switched on the engine. ‘Poor Mrs Quinn.’
‘Did you know the woman?’
‘Mr Quinn owns the garage.’
‘I didn’t realise. I’m sorry,’ Mirabelle lied. ‘You must all be terribly upset. I can’t imagine who’d want to do such a terrible thing.’
‘There are bad people out there.’ The driver switched on the wireless. The young man’s voice sounded. ‘Calling all cars. Pick up at the Grand for Eleanor.’
‘Is that a regular booking?’ Mirabelle enquired.
‘We do a lot of work for the Grand, miss.’
Mirabelle felt her lips purse. Hove Cars clearly picked up and dropped off at the hotel, that was no secret, but then what she was hearing wasn’t a booking on account of the Grand. It was for quite a different kind of hospitality – a series of young ladies who used their first names. Tomorrow she’d need to look into it. In the meantime, Superintendent McGregor had promised her dinner or at least he’d promised that his housekeeper, Miss Brownlee, would make her dinner.
The driver cruised smoothly into town. On the other side of the pier, he turned down a Georgian terrace and pulled up at the door of the Arundel guest house. Mirabelle smiled. It wasn’t like coming home but it was close. The man got out to open the door and she paid him on the pavement, making sure to tip.
‘I’ll wait to see you safely inside, miss,’ he said. ‘Like you said, you can’t be too careful.’
McGregor had bought the Arundel a couple of years ago and, ever since, Miss Brownlee (who was already resident) had done a sterling job of turning out the superintendent tidily and keeping him well fed. An easy understanding had grown between the two women in Superintendent McGregor’s life. Last year, they had exchanged Christmas cards and Mirabelle had bought Miss Brownlee a red silk scarf from Harrods, which she thought would suit the old lady far better than the succession of gaudy rayon squares she habitually chose to wear. ‘What a nice box,’ Miss Brownlee had said and Mirabelle hadn’t minded.
Now, Mirabelle slipped the key from her handbag and silently entered the front door. From the sitting room at the rear there was the steady hum of post-dinner conversation and the clanking of coffee cups. The Arundel was generally fully booked, which was in part due to Miss Brownlee’s skills in the kitchen and, increasingly, McGregor’s reluctance to take out his profits. Instead, he instructed Miss Brownlee to invest in new fittings. Last year, she had bought fresh mattresses and a refrigerator, which she found herself unable to refrain from mentioning at every opportunity.
Mirabelle crept up the stairs. There was a standing arrangement that the sitting room and its awkward questions were to be avoided. At the top, she knocked and didn’t wait for McGregor to call her in. The superintendent had chosen what had once been the house’s drawing room as his quarters and Mirabelle opened the door on to the familiar sight of two long windows, shrouded in thick, blue velvet curtains. The room was laid out beautifully with a four-poster bed at one end. At the other, McGregor sat in an easy chair by the fire. The late edition lay open in front of him with the earlier editions piled to one side. Jostling the newspaper, he got to his feet and indicated the drinks tray. Mirabelle nodded. He poured a gin and tonic and she wondered, fleetingly, if this was how Helen Quinn’s last night started – with a deadly measure poured by the man she cared about?
‘Miss Brownlee left you some pie,’ McGregor said.
Dinner at the Arundel was served at seven o’clock sharp with no exceptions. If they came in at this time of night, regular guests did not benefit from Miss Brownlee’s trays. Mirabelle peered at her supper. The wooden tray was laid with a thick linen napkin, highly polished silverware, a slice of pork pie with pickles and a generous portion of pudding on blue and white china.
‘Is that cheesecake?’ Mirabelle squinted hopefully.
‘Lemon cheesecake. She bought an American cookery book from a shop on Duke Street and then, of course, once she’d baked it, she could chill it. She left exacting instructions about the temperature it’s to be served at. I expect by now it’s too warm.’
Mirabelle couldn’t help but smile. Miss Brownlee had a natural aptitude with food. She could tell what you fancied before you knew it yourself. No matter its temperature, the cheesecake was sure to be delicious.
‘What a treat. I wonder if she’d give me a slice for Vesta?’
‘I thought Vesta would be fully supplied with cake.’
Mirabelle shrugged. He might be a chef but Charlie didn’t know yet about his wife’s yen for lemons. Mirabelle fell into the chair opposite the superintendent, sipped her gin and drew the tray on to her lap as the fire crackled. The smell of woodsmoke pervaded the room.
‘Well?’ McGregor was impatient. ‘Did you see Phil?’
‘He’s in shock, I think. His language was a bit ripe.’
Mirabelle regarded the pie. The pastry crumbled in her mouth. She was hungry, she realised as it melted on her tongue.
‘Any ideas yet?’
‘Not really. They kept their door unlocked, day and night. The neighbours all had access, along with anyone else who wanted it. Apart from that, all I’ve established is that the bottle of gin they were drinking may have been poisoned – that’s certainly Robinson’s theory. If it was, that happened some time between Wednesday night and Thursday evening, with the intention of disabling Mr and Mrs Quinn and killing Mrs Quinn, certainly.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, why didn’t they kill him, Alan? I mean, going to all that trouble and only killing her? It doesn’t make sense.’
McGregor’s eyebrows raised. ‘It seemed to me it was a punishment. Or a blackmail attempt. Something that went wrong.’
‘Maybe. But Quinn appears to have no idea about it. He’s very convincing.’ Mirabelle speared a piece of pickled cauliflower. Miss Brownlee really was a marvel. She took another bite of pie and once she’d swallowed it, posited, ‘If it was a punishment, that begs the question, a punishment for what? The same goes for blackmail. So, what was Quinn up to at Hove Cars? I mean the most likely thing is that it’s something to do with his business.’
‘Like I said – taxis are the lifeblood of the city. But beyond a little cash on the side, I don’t see Phil getting up to much – honestly, Mirabelle. He’s never been like that. Some blokes came back from the war with a chip on their shoulder. A propensity for trouble. A need to take risks. Phil came back with a desire to settle down. He’s a family man. That’s what he came from. What his father was like.’
‘Well, someone has taken offence. Maybe someone about whom he turned in information?’
McGregor shook his head. ‘We haven’t used the lads up there for any landmark cases. It’s only detail. Small clues that build up. Phil hasn’t put anyone in prison – not directly.’
‘What kind of information do you usually get from him?’
‘Surveillance. Taxi drivers waiting for a fare and see people come and go. Details of who they pick up and drop off. Other cars parked nearby. That kind of thing. It’s more about helping to build a case than clinching one. Basically, they help us place everybody.’
‘So it’s doubtful someone could be harbouring a grudge? A serious one?’
McGregor shook his head. ‘I don’t see it,’ he said.
‘What occurred to me is that perhaps we need to look around the taxi company, rather than directly at it. That’s the thing. Maybe it’s a customer. Maybe it’s someone who could be given away but hasn’t been grassed up yet. Someone who thinks they’re defending themselves.’
‘Police work often starts out half gossip.’ McGregor nodded. ‘But murder is a pretty aggressive act for someone on the defensive. What’s on your mind?’
Mirabelle didn’t want to tell him that she’d spent the last quarter of an hour hidden behind a water butt, eavesdropping, but she had to admit what she’d come up with. It was her only lead. ‘Well, who else is the lifeblood of the city? What other profession makes up the most common police informants and, for that matter, the most common criminals? If the taxi owners don’t know what’s going on, who else is there?’
McGregor sipped his whisky. He watched as Mirabelle cleared her plate. He didn’t like to say the word she was looking for but Mirabelle obviously wasn’t going to help him.
‘Prostitutes,’ he managed.
‘Yes. Most customers at Hove Cars might be above board. But what if they’re running prostitutes round town? Or more than that – what if they hook up punters? How well are you connected to Brighton’s brothels, Superintendent? Do you know who makes their transport arrangements? There’s something going on and it’s the only thing I can think of that might furnish a way in.’
McGregor stiffened. ‘I can’t let you go sniffing around whore-houses, Mirabelle.’
Mirabelle pushed away the tray and took a long drink of gin. It was too late for that. Her interest had been aroused. Besides, the seamy world of prostitution had borne evidence before. Still, she didn’t say so. Instead, she glanced momentarily at the four-poster bed. She stayed here more often than he stayed at her place. She told herself it was because of Miss Brownlee’s breakfasts and that it was more convenient and, for that matter, more discreet. None of these things was entirely true or, at least, they weren’t the real reason. The thing was McGregor’s long-windowed suite didn’t hold memories of anyone else. There was nothing to be reminded of at the Arundel and that was what she liked about it most.
McGregor met her gaze. ‘You’ll figure it out. I know you will,’ he said, as he got up and tipped her chin with his finger. She smiled as he leaned in and kissed her. Lately, she’d found herself greedy for him. For this. He swept an arm around her waist and scooped her out of the chair.
‘Come on, darling,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to bed.’