Tongdean Avenue was part of a stretch of comfortable suburban streets two miles inland. Developed before the war, the plots were evenly spaced, each containing a single detached property, some of which had been designed in the Tudor style with oak half-timbers between plaques of wattle and daub, and others which were more modern. These last looked like white ocean-going liners, so smooth and white that Mirabelle wondered if the occupants ever woke with tousled hair and crushed night clothes. Between the houses, the gardens were vivid green, each building surrounded by its own grounds and now, some years on from the initial development, the trees were coming into their own and at this time of year there was a profusion of blossom.
Vesta had not been pleased that Mirabelle did not want her company on the expedition. ‘Think of your condition,’ Mirabelle had said when they got back to the office. ‘I can’t bring you to a brothel.’ Fred’s hovel had felt bad enough.
‘Why not?’ Vesta objected. ‘The houses are lovely at Tongdean. It doesn’t look dangerous.’
‘Those kinds of places seldom do,’ Mirabelle replied drily. That wasn’t entirely true. Downmarket, dens of iniquity looked exactly what they were, but upmarket, things were gilded and dressed so that even if matters weren’t entirely hidden, they might easily be glossed over. But what might happen beneath that gloss was uncertain and Mirabelle didn’t want to take the risk. ‘It was the telephone that revolutionised how the business worked,’ she observed, slipping the pencil in her hand through her slim fingers and bouncing it off her notepad as she distracted the girl.
‘What telephone?’ Vesta asked, taking the bait.
‘The telephone. I mean, before that women had to go out to make their arrangements. Or a man had to call to a specific place. Or send a note. Can you imagine – a telegram. But once it was possible to telephone . . .’
A smile played on Vesta’s lips. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘So somewhere more out of the way, all you’d need is a telephone and you’d be in business.’
‘Well, a telephone and a way to get about. That’s the point, isn’t it? Hove Cars.’
In the end, Vesta agreed to mind the office as long as she could look into the nature of the sedative used to drug the Quinns. She had a friend on the nursing staff at the Royal. Mirabelle thought it would be good for the girl to speak to someone medical. Perhaps it would help her find a way to tell Charlie.
‘There might be a clue in the poison, I suppose. I’ll telephone to Marlene,’ Vesta said, sounding resigned as she eyed the handset on her desk with a new understanding.
Mirabelle left her to it, and half an hour later, as she stepped off the bus on Dyke Road, she could hear children splashing and screeching, out of sight in one of the back gardens. Someone must have a swimming pool, she thought. How nice. It didn’t feel like a working day up here – the place was overwhelmingly domestic. As she turned on to Tongdean Avenue there was a burst of butter-yellow blossom on all sides. Mirabelle eyed the laburnum petals that spilled on to the grass and dripped over the hedges. They made quite a show. Although laburnum was poisonous, its deadly pods wouldn’t have the effect of knocking out Mrs Quinn, Mirabelle thought. Laburnum, in even a small quantity, would kill a person outright. She’d seen what the poison could do first hand only a couple of years ago and it always surprised her that the tree was so commonplace. She wouldn’t choose to plant it in a garden, but perhaps whoever developed Tongdean Avenue had a fondness for yellow.
Mirabelle unfolded the piece of paper Fred had given her. Looking up, she realised that she had stopped outside the right house, a brick-built, five-bedroom on a corner plot. In the front garden some sorry-looking ice-blue irises were poking through the damp earth. The lead-paned windows were shielded by net curtains and the front gate was closed. A privet hedge ran along the low boundary wall. Mirabelle noticed the door furniture was dull. The house looked expressionless, as if it wasn’t paying attention to the outside world.
She took a turn around the perimeter wall. At the rear, more net curtains obscured the windows and there was a long stretch of lawn, a willow tree and a couple of beds of rosebushes. Directly outside the back door a pile of garden furniture lay bundled in tarpaulin. The side gate led to a long garage. It did not have the air of a place where the doors might be routinely left unlocked or where visitors were welcome.
Mirabelle took up a position just past the corner where she calculated she would least likely be noticed from inside. She waited for about half an hour during which time a delivery van deposited two cardboard boxes of groceries at a house across the street. Surveillance always took time. Mirabelle had read the manuals. She’d even helped to compile one or two. Since she came to Brighton she’d had occasion to put her knowledge to good use. Now, she rested against the brick wall, biding her time. At length, a smart-looking car driven by a uniformed chauffeur pulled up – the most interesting thing to happen so far. The man switched off the engine and picked up a newspaper. Within less than a minute, the front door of the house clicked open and a pretty blonde girl, wearing a brown coat and matching hat, marched down the driveway, her heels crunching the stones. Her jewellery was a little showy for the afternoon but apart from that you’d never guess. She spotted Mirabelle and halted at the gate with one eye on the car. The chauffeur bundled his newspaper on to the seat and jumped out on to the pavement to hold open the door, but the girl put up a gloved hand and turned in Mirabelle’s direction, her heels clicking as she approached.
‘Look, whoever he is, he isn’t here.’ She sounded exasperated. ‘Your husband, I mean. You’re wasting your time. And even if he was here, it’s hardly our fault.’
Mirabelle faltered. ‘But I’m not married,’ she found herself saying. The girl raised her eyes as if this fact simply annoyed her more. ‘Save me!’ she exclaimed. Then she turned on her heel and hopped into the back seat of the car. The chauffeur raised his eyes apologetically. He started the engine and pulled away. Mirabelle checked her watch. It was after three – about the time these girls would start work, she supposed. It was odd to think that all over Brighton men were planning a stolen afternoon before they went home to their wives. She was glad she had left Vesta in the office.
Further down the street, a postman was making his rounds, slamming the gates behind him. Mirabelle glanced at the house. In the old days, the department had surveilled premises for weeks before taking action, but here, she’d freeze before nightfall, and, besides, there was a limit to the amount of time a woman could hang around on a suburban street without anyone asking why. As the postman neared, she accosted him.
‘Good afternoon. Anything for Mr Davidson?’
The man searched his bag. ‘You staying for a while then, love?’
Mirabelle wasn’t sure how to reply. ‘Yes,’ was what came out of her mouth. ‘I’m his sister.’
The man drew three brown envelopes from the pile, pulling aside the taut string that held the mail in place. ‘He’s got a big family, Mr Davidson.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s always got people staying.’
‘Yes.’ Mirabelle smiled weakly. She reached out and relieved the postman of the letters. ‘I’ll take these,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
The bell must have sounded deep inside the house because, as she pressed it, Mirabelle couldn’t hear a thing. She eyed the knocker, wondering if it might be necessary to use that instead. At least then you knew you had made a sound that might call someone to action. Before she could, though, the door creaked open on to an old woman wearing a wig set in a strange-looking permanent wave. Its colour seemed dark against her raddled skin and her hands were thick-fingered with calluses. By contrast, she was wearing a housecoat that looked as if it might have belonged to Snow White – all starched white cotton with small red bows and zigzagged edging in French navy.
‘He’s not here, love,’ she said wearily. ‘Your husband or whatnot.’
‘Oh, I’m not looking for anyone like that. I wondered if Mr Davidson might be at home? I live down the road and his mail was delivered to my house.’ Mirabelle did not proffer the envelopes.
The woman eyed her up and down. ‘I’ll take them, miss,’ she said, holding out a large, red hand.
‘The thing is, I took it as an opportunity to introduce myself. It’s important to know your neighbours, don’t you see?’
The woman hesitated. Her eyes were rheumy and her skin was so thick it looked as if she had been smeared with pink concrete. As a consequence it was difficult to read her expression. ‘Hold on,’ she said and closed the door.
‘Well, I don’t expect she was trained in Paris,’ Mirabelle mumbled under her breath. She weighed Davidson’s mail in her hand. It was all brown envelopes, only bills, but they should furnish a way in.
The door remained closed for what felt like too long before the maid reappeared. ‘He’ll see you,’ she announced and held it open for Mirabelle to enter.
Inside, the hallway was decorated in muted tones of dun brown and green. A collection of Victorian brass bells covered every available surface from the window ledges to the little shelves above the radiators. The house so totally lacked expression from the outside that this bright decoration appeared outlandish, but there was little time to take it in. The woman, having closed the front door behind her, set off quickly down the hallway without offering to take Mirabelle’s jacket. Mirabelle followed her into a large public room, which opened on to the garden. The windows, though covered in the long net curtains she’d seen from the street, let in a good deal of light compared to the hallway and the place was nicely decorated. A thick, pale carpet was fitted wall-to-wall with a red and blue Turkish rug placed at a jaunty angle on top. Beyond that, the place was crammed with oak furniture – two sideboards, an array of chairs and two desks, behind one of which sat a man wearing a slick, dark suit and a thin tie. Clean shaven, puffing an ebony pipe and wearing wire-framed spectacles, he looked more like an accountant than a pimp. He was at least fifty years of age. It was difficult to reconcile Fred’s warning about the hard-negotiating, dangerous owner of the house with the man sitting in front of her.
‘Mr Davidson?’ Mirabelle held out her hand.
The man got to his feet and firmly shook it, motioning Mirabelle towards a scatter of chairs. ‘Please,’ he said.
‘Your mail was inadvertently delivered to my house. I’m a neighbour.’ Mirabelle waved vaguely in the direction from which she had come.
Mr Davidson glanced at the envelopes. ‘And you might be?’
Mirabelle didn’t falter. She wasn’t going to give him her real name. ‘My name is Belle,’ she said. No one called her that these days but the monicker was familiar – the best kind of cover. Jack had called her Belle for years. And in these circles surnames were superfluous – for women, anyway. ‘You’ve been on Tongdean Avenue for longer than I have, Mr Davidson.’
‘Which number have you moved into?’ he enquired.
‘Are you friendly with many of the neighbours?’
‘Not especially.’
Mirabelle didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Number twenty-seven,’ she replied.
Mr Davidson got up and pulled open an oak drinks cabinet, revealing an array of bottles. ‘Might I get you something?’ he asked, as he poured himself a brandy.
‘Thank you. No.’
‘It is a little early.’
‘Oh no. I like a drink. But I have shopping to do. I found a decent off-licence on the way into town on Hangleton Road as a matter of fact. I need to pick up some bits and pieces.’
‘I know the shop you mean.’ Davidson sipped. ‘Well, Belle, what can I do for you?’
‘Oh, nothing at all.’
‘You just came to look then? Out of curiosity?’
‘Just to be neighbourly. When the mail arrived on my doormat, I thought I might as well bring it over. I was going out anyway, as I said.’
His stare was unforgiving. ‘It’s very brave of you. Most of the neighbours avoid this house.’
‘Really? Why?’
He didn’t reply. Instead, he filled his pipe and spent a moment or two lighting it. The smell of burning shag wafted over the desk. ‘I can’t say it’s not a nice place,’ he posited, taking off his spectacles and laying them on the leather blotter. Without them his face changed. He looked markedly less professorial. His gaze was direct and unforgiving as if he was weighing her up. Mirabelle’s skin prickled and her heart rate increased, but she decided to push him. It was the only way.
‘Yes. Though did you read about the murder the other night? It happened not two miles away. It quite shook me. I mean, one feels vulnerable. I’m a woman on her own, you see.’
‘I understood the woman who died was married. Sometimes that’s the more dangerous option.’ Davidson eyed his brandy. ‘Look, there’s no point pussyfooting about. It occurs to me that you’ve popped in on business. That’s the truth isn’t it, Belle?’
‘What kind of business are you in, Mr Davidson?’
‘Entertainment,’ he said flatly. ‘My clients are performers. I expect you know that.’
‘On the contrary, I had no idea. I would have imagined that you might live in London. What with Shaftesbury Avenue and the theatres.’ She kept her tone light.
‘I lived in London for a while.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Three years. Maybe four.’
‘Brighton is friendly, isn’t it? And easier to get about. All the London shops deliver – you’d hardly realise you had left town in some regards. Though, as I say, this murder has unnerved me.’
Mr Davidson curled his fingers around the brandy glass and swirled the liquid up the sides. He did not speak.
‘I like the bells. In the hallway,’ Mirabelle said eventually. During the war, some interrogators used silence to put on pressure. But it struck her that Davidson was not one to crack that way. It was better to put him at his ease and not let the gaps in the conversation become oppressive. The more she could get him to talk, the more chance there was he’d say something useful. This, after all, was a fishing exercise.
‘The bells belonged to my mother,’ he said. ‘She was a collector of sorts. I don’t know what it was that so attracted her but she loved them. She was drawn to junk shops – she liked it down here on the coast – all the little shops. She couldn’t pass one by. Actually, some of her collection is quite interesting. There’s one of a lady in a Victorian dress and the ringer inside is shaped like her legs. I suppose that was quite saucy in its day.’
‘It’s a lot of polishing.’
‘I think my mother found that therapeutic, to tell the truth.’
‘Was she in your business?’
‘My mother was a cleaning lady.’ Davidson’s tone was combative. ‘I was brought up round the Portland Road. Notting Hill. And proud of it. I don’t really belong on Tongdean Avenue, if that’s what you’re trying to figure out.’
‘Not at all. Good for you. Your mother must have been proud.’
‘What is it you want, Belle? Why are you here?’
‘Why do you think I’m here?’
‘I think you’re curious. I think you’re a little bit saucy. I think you’ve heard what goes on in this house and you’re wondering if you might belong here. I don’t think you’re a woman who is on the way to Hannington’s or off to buy a case of wine. I think you’re someone who is looking for a job.’
‘A job?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘And if I was?’
‘I’d say you’re well turned out and you’ve got nerve coming in here like you have. I’d say there’s a certain kind of man who might be happy to see you. The kind of man who wants a decent conversation over dinner before moving on to other things. An older gent who feels foolish being seen with a woman half his age.’
Mirabelle’s cheeks burned and she cursed herself for being naive. It felt as if she’d waded in further than she’d intended.
‘My girls are paid well,’ Davidson said. ‘In return they do a good job. A professional job. I don’t take on anyone lightly.’ His eyes lighted on her ankles and travelled upwards – a naked glance. Mirabelle was surprised how disconcerted she felt. She let him stare though. ‘Well?’ Davidson said when he’d done.
‘I suppose I’m here because I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if it’s right for me.’
He sounded satisfied, as if he’d sniffed her out. ‘That’s fair enough. Why don’t you spend the day, Belle? Get the feel ...’ He got up, poured a shot of spirits and put the glass down in front of her. ‘Let’s not pretend, shall we? There’s only one way to find out if you’re that kind of woman.’
He was openly predatory now, but Mirabelle was suddenly sure she could handle this. She just wasn’t sure how. When the door opened and a young woman walked in, she felt a mild wave of relief.
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘Not at all.’ Davidson motioned the girl towards Mirabelle. ‘This is Jinty. Jinty, this is Belle.’
Mirabelle nodded hello. The girl was nicely dressed in a lemon-yellow dress and heels. She was wearing too much lipstick for a weekday afternoon. That was where these women fell down, Mirabelle thought. They were slightly too obvious; not, she supposed, that the men minded.
‘How do you do.’ Jinty smiled.
That, Mirabelle thought, was more like it. The conversation had become rather intense, and none of it about Helen Quinn. Yes, she needed to get back to that. ‘I was just saying the recent murder over at Hangleton has quite shaken me. Did you read about it? Everyone knows that in London that kind of thing goes on, but down here, well, I think of Brighton being safer, somehow. Like the country.’
‘The country?’ The girl flicked open the silver cigarette box on Davidson’s desk and deftly fitted a gasper into a short, jet cigarette holder. She waited for Davidson to pick up his gold lighter and elegantly leaned into the flame to get the smoke going. ‘Gosh. I don’t think of Brighton like that at all. The dancing down here is wonderful. A crowd of us went to the Palais last week and we all remarked that we could have been anywhere. Tottenham Court Road. The Mecca or somewhere. The music was top-notch. And then there’s the Variety. Brighton gets its fair share of big acts. I don’t think of it as being like the country at all.’
‘Perhaps I just lead a quieter life,’ Mirabelle managed wistfully. ‘And it’s such a nasty business. The murder, I mean.’
‘Well, they got the fellow.’
‘They arrested the woman’s husband. Yes.’
Jinty shrugged as if that settled the matter. The doorbell sounded and Davidson got to his feet. ‘That will be your car.’
‘I take special clients in the afternoon,’ Jinty explained. Her voice was comforting, as if she was purring. ‘There’s a party in a suite in one of the big hotels down the coast.’ She met Davidson’s eye, to check what she was saying was all right. He didn’t stop her. Quite the reverse.
‘Maybe you should go along, Belle. You said you wanted to see. Well, now’s your chance. Lights, camera, action.’
Mirabelle considered. The truth was if she stayed here Davidson would only become more insistent and she wasn’t going to sleep with him. Besides, Jinty was promisingly chatty. This whole thing had turned out rather differently to what she had been expecting, but she felt intrigued, if she was honest. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘If you think I’m presentable enough.’
‘Your dress is fine.’ Jinty sounded businesslike, as if she was taking stock of a soldier on parade or an item on display in a department store. ‘I tell you what, I’ll let you use my make-up in the car.’
‘You won’t panic?’ Davidson’s gaze was steady upon Mirabelle as she got to her feet.
‘I don’t panic,’ she assured him. ‘Well, I never have.’
‘Jinty will keep you right, but if someone makes you an offer, you owe me a cut. I don’t give freebies and neither should you. I insist on that from the start.’