The car was a private hire rather than the lush chauffeur-driven model that had taken the blonde girl wherever she had been going earlier. Jinty shoved along the back seat and Mirabelle climbed in behind her. The girl had brought a smart clutch bag and a small leather suitcase.
‘Toys and treats,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll stay over.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Eastbourne. The Grand.’ Jinty raised her eyes. ‘The Grand in Brighton is the easy job, but sometimes we have to go further afield. Today it’s a conference so that makes it worthwhile. We’ll get a day or two out of it, I expect.’
‘Don’t people notice?’
Jinty laughed and shook her head. ‘And what if they do?’ she said lightly. Her hair smelled of shampoo. The driver started the engine and Mirabelle glanced back at the house. Davidson was standing in the doorway. He raised a hand to wave them off.
‘And he looks after you?’ she checked.
‘The best,’ Jinty confirmed. ‘Really. He’s good at finding new business, too. If you’re thinking of joining an operation, this is a good one. Take it from me. How old are you?’
‘I’m more than forty.’
Jinty cast a look that said Mirabelle looked good for forty. She settled into her seat. ‘So what made you decide to try this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you did it before? I mean when you were . . .’
‘Younger? No. Never.’
‘That’s unusual. Is it the money? Or are you just bored?’ Mirabelle must have looked dubious because Jinty’s tone became insistent. ‘It’s more fun than you’d think, you know. Take today: there’ll be a party. Being paid takes the anxiety out of things, I always think.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The men know, almost always, that they can . . . you know . . . if they want to. So they aren’t nervous or in a rush. And we only go to nice places, working for Ernie. It’s that kind of shop.’
‘I keep thinking of that woman. The one who was murdered.’
‘Helen Quinn? What are you thinking about her for?’
‘You know her name?’
‘I knew her husband. Phil. He was a customer before he got married. I haven’t seen him since he met her, though. It must be more than a year now.’
‘But if you know him . . . you don’t seem perturbed that he’s been arrested, Jinty. Do you think he did it?’
‘Well, I don’t know.’
‘Was he ever violent?’
‘No. Phil was a pussycat. He used to bring presents – boxes of sweets.’
‘Do you know anything about his company?’ Mirabelle kept her voice too low for the driver to hear. By now the car had turned on to the main road and the noise of the engine had increased.
‘Hove Cars? They’re good guys,’ the girl said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’ll help out if there’s trouble. It’s never happened to me, but one of my friends had a customer who got out of hand.’
‘You mean pushy?’
‘I mean rape. People think women like us can’t be raped but there are some sick bastards out there.’
Jinty lit another cigarette. Her eyes were hard now.
‘Why do you do it?’ Mirabelle knew she sounded naive.
Jinty shrugged. ‘I make a mint,’ she said. ‘And if you’re clear from the start, it hardly ever happens.’
‘And the drivers at Hove Cars help?’
‘If you can get away. If it isn’t a busy night they wait. My friend, the one who had the creep on her hands, she ran out to the car and the driver protected her. Ernie took it from there, of course, but they’re good guys.’
‘But there was no suggestion that Phil Quinn ever did anything like that?’
‘Tough stuff? No.’
‘So do you think Helen Quinn’s death had something to do with her husband’s business? Could it be someone taking revenge?’
Jinty shrugged again. This tactic wasn’t working. ‘How would I know?’ she said.
‘But you don’t think it’s likely Phil Quinn killed her?’ Mirabelle pushed.
‘Look, it’s not my business. You can’t tell what people are going to do. Men especially.’
It occurred to Mirabelle that the girl just didn’t care about Phil Quinn one way or another. Perhaps that was how you had to be in her position – you couldn’t really care about anybody.
‘Why are you interested anyway?’
Mirabelle shook her head only slightly. ‘Quinn is a friend of a friend. They shouldn’t have charged him. I don’t like the thought of someone else getting away with murder. Poor woman.’
Satisfied with this explanation, though, Mirabelle noted, not showing any sympathy or even interest, Jinty settled back to look out of the window. Mirabelle wondered if Mrs Quinn knew about her husband’s sexual habits before she agreed to marry him. Did she know he visited prostitutes? But then, did any woman know what her man got up to? People had a right to privacy, though that courtesy extended more to men than to women.
Jinty changed the subject by lazily flipping open the lid of the suitcase, to reveal a lace-edged, ivory boudoir set. She scrabbled underneath and brought out a tortoiseshell box. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘try some lipstick. There’s powder too.’
Dubiously, Mirabelle clicked open the lid and picked a pillar-box red for her lips. She raised a leather-cased mirror to her face. It felt like putting on warpaint.
‘That’s better.’ Jinty smiled, as if things were settled. She put the box back in place and slammed the suitcase shut. ‘When we get there, you have to chat, you know. See how you get on. I don’t think there’ll be any trouble, but if anything happens, come and find me, all right?’
At Eastbourne, the car slowed as it drew up behind the hotel. The women got out at the entrance to an underground garage. Arrangements had clearly been made. An attendant got to his feet and slickly directed them towards a lift without asking why they were there. Perhaps, Mirabelle considered, that was the virtue of the red lipstick. ‘Fourth floor,’ he said, pressing the button once they were inside and drawing his hand back quickly so the closing door didn’t catch his fingers. It struck her that the ease with which these things were managed was extraordinary. To say nothing of the ease with which she had taken to it. Jack had teased her about her abilities – a cool head, but not really with the right stuff for work in the field, he’d said. Well, this was the field. The lift rang some kind of bell as it halted and the door opened on to a carpeted hallway where the sound of music drew them to the right door.
Mirabelle laid a hand on the girl’s arm. ‘Are you sure I look all right?’ she checked. She couldn’t remember the last time she had even considered such a thing, but there it was.
‘Oh yes.’ Jinty grinned, squeezing her hand. ‘Don’t worry.’ Inside, it was packed. Men in suits crammed in, the low hum of their conversation providing a base note to the music and the staccato of female laughter. Several waiters served champagne and short glasses of whisky on silver trays. Jinty raised a hand to wave at two girls who were sitting on a low sofa surrounded, it seemed, by several older fellows in dark suits. ‘Sandra! Emily,’ she squealed and pushed her way through, elegantly picking up a flute of champagne as she passed a waiter. Mirabelle followed.
‘This is Belle,’ Jinty pronounced. ‘She’s new.’
Mirabelle smiled. The men, she noticed, behaved quite normally. This wasn’t some pagan hellhole or even the kind of orgy she’d heard went on in Whitehall when it was necessary to let off steam. Midday marriages, she’d once heard the parties called by an elderly civil servant who had seen it all. ‘From the Greek,’ he had explained.
The chap sitting beside Sandra got to his feet and gestured Mirabelle to take his place. A waiter offered her a drink. It was less Bohemian than she expected. A hundred Friday afternoon parties all over the country would feel the same. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a girl kissing a man in a suit in a corner. He had her wedged up against the wall with such force, Mirabelle wondered if they might sink into the bricks and pass straight through into the bedroom that was no doubt next door.
‘Are you from Eastbourne, Belle?’ the man enquired, drawing her attention back to the niceties.
‘Brighton,’ Mirabelle replied.
‘Really,’ he said, as if this information fascinated him.
‘Though originally, I’m from London,’ she continued.
He held up his drink and she clicked her glass. So this was how it happened. Ice-cold champagne. Men with money. Sofas upholstered in thick yellow velvet. And all around, music and chatter. Floors and floors of bedrooms, so very nearby.
‘How much do you get?’ Mirabelle whispered into Jinty’s ear. She really should have thought of this in the car, but the details hadn’t occurred to her.
Jinty smiled flirtatiously in the direction of her audience, but her tone was serious as she replied, talking behind her palm. ‘Twenty a night. Upfront. Davidson will take a fiver. If you’re not living in, that is. If they tip, you get to keep it. It’s good isn’t it?’
Mirabelle turned and smiled at the man, who started to talk about a rugby match in Barnes. Jinty was right – twenty pounds seemed quite a good amount of money but then these girls were upmarket – the girls who loitered behind Brighton Pavilion, like the women in doorways at King’s Cross, wouldn’t get anything like that kind of money. The champagne made her feel as if she was floating. She wondered momentarily if she might be anyone. If she might be capable of anything. The man touched her leg as he demonstrated the success of a particular try – the details of a game she wasn’t really following. It was a moment of forced intimacy and only then did Mirabelle realise she didn’t want him. All this was bewitching, but it wasn’t personal. It wasn’t McGregor. How strange, she thought. The superintendent had seemed for a long time like a man who was filling in for Jack. But now, when it came to it, it was him she wanted. She shifted along the sofa and tried to focus on the conversation.
As the afternoon wore on, more girls arrived and there was dancing. Mirabelle joined in. The man who had been talking about rugby had long since jumped ship with a sullen redhead who seemed to have some knowledge of the league match he’d been describing. The couple who had stood kissing in the corner had disappeared. Now, across a coffee table, Jinty was playing a game that involved flipping a sixpence in the time it took to knock back a shot of liqueur. As if from nowhere, a young man with dark eyes caught Mirabelle’s hand and twirled her around. She laughed.
‘Will you come to bed with me?’ he asked, slipping his arm around her waist.
‘No,’ she said simply. ‘Sorry.’
‘You’re booked?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shame.’
‘I’m far too old for you.’
He kissed her neck and she felt a tingle at the base of her spine as his lips brushed her skin. His cheek was rough – a five o’clock shadow. She pushed him away and he stumbled good-naturedly towards a bottle of whisky perched on a side table. He’d be a handful later for one of the other girls, perhaps when they returned from another assignation. Mirabelle popped her handbag under her arm, took a cigarette from a seemingly abandoned packet that was balanced on the arm of a chair, and waved at Jinty. She was surprised by how liberated she felt.
Jinty smiled. ‘We meet at the Grand for drinks on Sunday evenings,’ she said, mouthing the words. ‘I mean, the Grand at home. Half past eight.’ Sunday nights were quiet in hotels. Maybe it was the best way to pick up a little business or maybe it was simply a good night to take off. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay?’
Mirabelle nodded. ‘Goodbye,’ she said and, picking her way across the room, she slipped out of the suite door.
In the hallway, the carpet was so thick it was like walking on marshmallow. She got into the lift and pressed the button to go up, exiting on to a hallway almost identical to the one she had left. Through a swing door, she found what she was looking for – an exit that opened on to a fire escape and out to the fresh air. Up here the view was beautiful. The slate roofs of Georgian Eastbourne stretched on either side, the sea an open vista beyond them and the breeze bracing off the front. Mirabelle pulled a box of matches from her pocket and lit the cigarette, then took a deep draw. It was good to know she could still surprise herself. She wondered if she’d stood out particularly among the rabble. It didn’t feel as if she had and there was something good about having got away with her deception. She checked the time. If she hurried she’d get back to Brighton just as it got dark, but now she wanted to enjoy this feeling of independence for a few more moments. Strangely, she hadn’t felt like this since Jack. Not since he’d first kissed her and she’d realised she didn’t care about him being married.
She leaned against the closed door and thought of what all the people at the party would soon be doing on the floors beneath – crumpled sheets and room service – and, on the ground floor, the pretence of the conference all these men had come to attend. No one had even said what it was a conference about. She laughed as she realised. Still, even if this whole thing wasn’t for her, it could have been. It seemed strange. The ins and outs of where you ended up. You could be perfectly respectable and still get drawn in. That, in itself, was something to think about. How much did Phil Quinn know about this world? she wondered. How much did he know about his drivers acting as bodyguards for Davidson’s girls? He must have been aware of it. The other night the controller at Hangleton had sent out three cars in less than half an hour to ferry girls to and from jobs. Had Quinn become embroiled? Had his wife found out about his premarital habits at Tongdean Avenue?
She stubbed out her cigarette and flicked it into the gutter, noticing the red lipstick on the heel. She wasn’t used to smelling of smoke. When she got home she’d change her clothes, she thought, as she pulled herself together. This had all been very interesting. It was Alan McGregor she wanted, she remembered. That more than anything. And, for that reason among others, she had to get back to Brighton. There was, after all, a murder to solve.