That evening, the sunset was particularly beautiful. Returning from Eastbourne in time to strip off her fitted skirt and wash away the make-up Jinty had encouraged her to apply, Mirabelle put on a pair of dark trousers and flat shoes and tied her hair back in a simple ponytail. As she left her flat on the Lawns, the sky was streaked with colour. The black outline of the pier was visible from far off, its lights the brightest stars of early evening. Slowly, a broad shadow crept across the city as darkness fell, the streetlights casting a dim, buttery glow over the paving stones as she walked away from the front. The air smelled of the sea tonight. Waiting to catch the bus, she wondered vaguely how Vesta had got on with the poison.
It was Friday so the top deck was full of young people heading into town, chattering loudly. In the main, they were late for the dance halls, but perhaps it was fashionable not to arrive on time. Either way, Jinty had been right – Brighton’s nightlife was particularly lively when you were in the thick of it. The girls wore wide cotton skirts over bright, sugar-starched petticoats – a riot of colours and patterns. The boys wore dark suits, slim cut on the leg, the material emitting a glimmer in the bus’s harsh light. Between the sexes, the banter was alive, as the crowd puffed away, sharing cigarettes and offering lights. Mirabelle wondered if she ought to have sat on the lower deck. She’d never be part of that, never had been. Still, she found herself feeling underdressed.
The revellers quit the bus at the city centre, getting off in a cloud of perfume and brilliantine, which lingered with the remains of the tobacco smoke as the driver turned northwards. This time, at least, Mirabelle knew which stop to get off at without having to ask and, as she stepped on to the pavement, the air felt warmer this far inland. Walking towards Mill Lane, the houses looked cosy. The windows glowed with lamplight and, occasionally, from an open casement, there was the sound of laughter or the crackling of voices on the wireless. Just off the main road an old man was digging his front garden. He had balanced an oil lamp on a wheelbarrow. It looked as if he was planting seeds. Mirabelle deliberately didn’t catch his eye.
Mill Lane looked no different from any of the other streets off the main road. At number fourteen, the windows of Mrs Ambrose’s house were dimmed by drawn curtains, but, across the street, the Randalls hadn’t closed theirs and Mirabelle caught a glimpse of Vi and Billy deep in conversation. Vi was grasping her husband’s hand, her face lit by the lamplight. From behind, Billy Randall was nodding. Mirabelle smiled – young love was such a blessing, the unalloyed happiness of the first time you felt that connection. Stifling the ripple of remembrance that shifted in her gut, she opened the Quinns’ gate carefully and slipped through the gap before it could squeak. Then she drew out her set of SOE lock picks and quickly opened the front door. After slipping inside, she took out her torch. She had come prepared. She switched on the beam, keeping the light low to the floor.
The house felt abandoned already. The police hadn’t tidied before they left. The pillows from the sofa were stacked beside its frame and there was an eerie smattering of fingerprint dust over the mantel and on the wireless set. This was where they had danced, she thought, and that was the table where the gin bottle must have lain. Mrs Quinn’s house was the mirror image of Vi Randall’s, though it appeared immediately more luxurious. There were several modern pieces of furniture and a selection of well-made throws and rugs. On the wall, there was a set of paintings, framed in painted wood. Still, even in the torchlight, it lacked character somehow. There were no newspapers. No books. No flowers. On the mantelpiece there were a few photographs – one of the Quinns’ wedding and a few others of people Mirabelle assumed were relations – the kind of photographs people had had taken before they went to war. Keepsakes, not memories, taken in photographic studios.
She crossed the hallway, noticing the carpet was new and of high quality. Inside, despite everything, the bedroom smelled faintly of lavender. The door of the wardrobe had been left open, revealing a rack of what looked like well-kept clothes and a row of smart, high-heeled shoes. Several colourful sweaters were folded tidily in a pile. Helen Quinn had certainly kept up with the latest trends. Beside them were Phil Quinn’s shirts – a starched stack of white. On the other side of the room, the bed had been stripped and the mattress was stained badly where the woman must have died. Beyond that, there were dark marks on the carpet and a smear along the wall, which, Mirabelle thought, must have been made when they removed the body.
Re-enacting the scene, Mirabelle paced out what the murderer had done. Presumably, they entered the room by the door. The Quinns had been asleep. Helen had lain on the far side of the bed so the killer would have had to go round the base. Mirabelle cast the beam across the wall and, sure enough, there was a clear void in the spatter of blood. That’s where they must have stood. Gingerly, Mirabelle placed herself in the spot and drew back her arm. This was how they had stabbed the poor woman. There were two tiers of tiny blood marks on the wall – yes, that meant Helen Quinn had been stabbed twice at least. And then, how long had it taken her to die? It occurred to Mirabelle that even if Mr and Mrs Quinn had been drugged, surely the bed would have shifted with the force of the attack. The direct nature of the crime suddenly became apparent. This was an impossible thing to do to someone you didn’t know. Someone you didn’t hate. If the murderer was going to drug the Quinns, why didn’t they just poison them? It would have been easier.
Mirabelle leaned against the window frame and thought for a moment. The stabbing seemed suddenly a very public way to kill someone, underlining that this was not only a murder but a message too. If Phil Quinn was the recipient of that message he seemed not only unafraid but also unaware. What it clearly said was, I can come for you whenever I want. I can do anything. But Quinn had had Helen taken from him – the thing he valued most. What more could the murderer threaten?
Considering this, Mirabelle reached for the bedside table on Mrs Quinn’s side. The drawer contained a pack of cards, a box of Kirby grips and some safety pins. On Mr Quinn’s side, there was a man’s hairbrush and a bottle of expensive aftershave and below that two drawers full of pressed handkerchiefs interleaved with tissue paper and lavender. On the dressing table, a box containing lipstick, a showy compact filled with pressed powder and a flashy marble and gilt talcum holder with a pale, pink-ribboned puff. She was about to investigate the toilet arrangements when she started at the sound of the front door opening.
A man’s voice cut into the darkness. ‘Who’s in here?’ he called angrily. ‘Show yourself.’
Mirabelle snapped off her torch, called back to real life, and, hardly thinking, she slipped open the bedroom window with the intention of escaping across the back lawn. The sill was on the high side, she realised, as she scrambled up it, dropping the torch and losing her footing. She fumbled, trying to keep away from the bloodstains, desperate not to smear the spatter. Her hands fumbled as she pulled herself up. In a momentary lapse of judgement, she reached down to pick up the torch. Sure enough, the bedroom door slammed open and the man hurtled towards her.
‘Oi!’ he called, as he crossed the room, a large, indistinct black shadow. He grappled Mirabelle, pulling her back over the sill and pushing her against the wall. Then he grabbed her arm, pinning her against his body and using his weight to force her towards the door.
‘Get off!’ she shouted, squirming and outraged. ‘What are you doing?’
He was a big fellow. She tried to kick him, but he had her pinned too close to his body to give her any purchase.
‘Get off me!’ she tried again. She wondered if she might manage to stab him off with her elbows, but he seemed to have her rather professionally held in place. At the bedroom door, he squirmed to free one hand and switched on the light. Mirabelle pulled away.
‘Go to hell!’ she snapped. How dare he? Then she looked. The dark shape materialised into a beat bobby in uniform – a middle-aged, thick-set man with a wide face. He was breathing hard – he might have given her a fright but he’d given himself one too. Breaking into a dark house and grappling an intruder into submission was not for the faint-hearted. As the rush of her pulse slowed, she realised that his uniform smelled of mothballs. She rubbed her arm. It felt as if there was a bruise forming.
‘You scared the life out of me,’ she said, as they both took stock of the situation. It was clear he expected kids breaking in, if not the murderer returning to the scene. Certainly not this perfectly respectable, slight lady.
‘Well. What have you got to say for yourself?’ he demanded.
‘I’m sorry. I wanted to see where it had happened.’
‘This is the site of a murder, madam, not a tourist attraction. I can book you for breaking and entering.’
‘I’m a friend . . .’ Mirabelle’s voice trailed.
‘A friend? Of the deceased?’
‘Of the accused, I suppose.’
The policeman’s face betrayed satisfaction at this admission. The ghost of a smile passed across his lips. People jumped to such conclusions.
‘I’m not Philip Quinn’s mistress, Officer. Nothing like that. What I mean to say is, I’m a friend of Superintendent McGregor. That’s what I’m doing here.’
Light dawned. ‘You’re McGuigan & McGuigan, aren’t you? The debt collector. I’ve heard of you. Meriel Benton, isn’t it?’
‘Mirabelle Bevan. I expect you’ve heard I’m a meddler then?’ She tried to crack a smile. The policeman didn’t reply, but Mirabelle knew what they said. ‘Phil Quinn is a childhood friend of the superintendent,’ she continued.
‘Yeah. I heard.’
‘I wanted to look into this for him. He suggested it, actually.’
‘This house is private property, miss. It’s a crime scene. You can’t just break in, no matter who your friends are or what the super said.’
Mirabelle made no attempt to defend her actions. Instead, she directed herself to the matter of information. That, after all, was the important thing.
‘Is Mill Lane on your usual beat? Were you on duty that night, Officer? The night Helen Quinn died?’
The man seemed eager to talk. ‘I didn’t see a thing,’ he admitted. ‘I wish I had. I must have passed right by when it was going on. It’s a strange feeling. I wasn’t going to let that happen again, was I?’
‘You mean, seeing me in here?’
The policeman nodded. ‘A murder in Portslade, who’d credit it? I don’t want to see another.’
‘You’re right. It seems too nice. Suburban. Quiet. Who do you think did it?’
‘Inspector Robinson reckons he’s got the man. The husband,’ the policeman said flatly.
‘I didn’t ask what Inspector Robinson thought. You were here.’
‘He’s charged the fella.’
Mirabelle blanched. She didn’t know Quinn’s case had progressed quite so far. This was an important development. It meant Robinson probably wasn’t even investigating other options any more.
‘The accused’s on remand,’ the policeman said. ‘Awaiting trial.’
‘Do you think he did it?’
‘It seems most likely. The husband.’
‘Did you know Phil Quinn? I mean, this is your beat.’
‘I know him by sight – going in and out of the house. That’s all. “Evening, sir,” and that. You never can tell, can you?’
Mirabelle sighed. She knew he was right – Jinty had said the same. And yet, Robinson obviously hadn’t made much of an effort to investigate anyone or anything else. She stared at the mattress on the other side of the room. ‘What occurs to me, now I’m here, is that it was a big thing to say. I mean, killing her like that. It made a statement. When you look in detail at what he had to do.’
‘Yeah. Some of the lads have been reckoning the same. I mean, there was talk that it was to punish Quinn for a misdemeanour. Gangland and that. He ain’t got a record though. Doesn’t seem the type. But, as you say, you never know. I reckon, he killed her and it was Quinn who was sending the message. Saying something to the world. Or even to her.’
‘The dead woman?’
‘I’ve known that. A man who wants to dominate his wife. A fellow minded to get away with doing anything he wants. “I’ll show you.”’
Mirabelle thought of Phil Quinn sitting in his cell, red-eyed and unable to eat, wearing his ridiculously smart clothes. He didn’t seem like someone who wanted to dominate anybody. He must be devastated now he’d been charged. She was about to say something to that effect when there was a smart knock at the front door.
‘You stay here,’ the constable ordered. Through the hallway, as the officer opened up, Mirabelle saw a man on the doorstep. Behind him, Vi hovered further up the path.
‘Billy.’ The policeman nodded. ‘Evening, Violet.’
‘What’s going on, Arthur? We saw a light,’ Billy Randall said. ‘Is everything all right?’
Vinoticed Mirabelle and gave a little nod. ‘Hello, Miss Bevan.’ She stepped forward. ‘Have there been any developments?’
The constable gave himself up to this little gaggle of interested parties and stepped back to let them converse.
‘This is my husband,’ Vi introduced Billy. ‘This is Miss Bevan, Billy, the lady I told you about.’
‘I visited Philip Quinn yesterday,’ Mirabelle said. ‘He is terribly shaken, but he’s surviving. He’s been charged now. The constable just told me.’
Billy Randall shook his head. ‘That’s not right,’ he said. ‘Phil wouldn’t have laid a hand on Helen. I told your lot that. You’ve got it all wrong.’
‘I think it’s difficult for the police because there’s no evidence of an alternative assassin,’ Mirabelle cut in. ‘There’s no apparent motive for someone else to have done it. That’s what I’m doing here. I came to see if I could figure out who might have got in that night. Who might have drugged the Quinns’ gin bottle, for a start.’
‘I was here in the afternoon,’ Vi said eagerly. ‘Does that help?’
The policeman fumbled with the flap on his pocket to get out his notebook. He let out a low sigh. ‘Close the door behind you,’ he said, pulling out a pencil.
The four of them clustered uncomfortably in the hallway around the open bedroom door. ‘I told the police,’ Vi explained. ‘But they didn’t seem to think it was important. They just kept asking Billy about what he’d seen. He found the body, after all. And then, Miss Bevan, I had a chat with you. But, I suppose I was so shocked that they’d taken Phil into custody that we didn’t talk about the afternoon before the murder.’
‘No,’ Mirabelle said. ‘We didn’t.’
The policeman’s eyes did not betray any emotion about the fact that Mirabelle had interviewed this witness. ‘We might as well make sure then, hadn’t we?’ he said. ‘In case we turn something up. So, what time did you pop in, Mrs Randall?’
‘About four o’clock,’ Vi replied promptly.
‘And Mrs Quinn seemed fine?’
‘Yes. Absolutely normal. We often had a natter in the afternoon.’
‘Did you notice the gin bottle?’ Mirabelle cut in.
Vi smiled. ‘I certainly did! We had a tot.’
Billy Randall regarded his wife. ‘Drinking in the afternoon, Vi?’ he tutted. The policeman took a note.
Vi shrugged. Her cardigan shifted over her slim shoulders. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it was only a little treat. We had a cup of tea and then Helen said why didn’t we have a gin and a round of cards. We played rummy.’
‘Mrs Quinn liked cards, then?’ Mirabelle checked.
‘Oh yes. She could deal all fancy. You know. Pivot cuts.’
Billy Randall’s expression changed. Mirabelle thought he looked mildly impressed with his wife’s knowledge. He clearly had no idea what she got up to during the day. ‘You didn’t tell me you girls played cards and drank gin,’ he said.
Vi’s eyes shone. ‘Well, it’s not all peeling potatoes and cleaning the kitchen floor, you know. You’ve got to live a little.’ She rested her hand on her baby bump.
‘But gin in the afternoon, Vi. What did you two talk about?’
‘Oh stop it, Billy. It was just a bit of fun. All the girls like a drink and a natter.’
‘What time did you leave, Mrs Randall?’ the officer cut in.
‘Half past five. Billy gets home after six and I wanted to get the fire lit and lay the table. It still gets cold in the evenings.’
‘Do you know what time Mr Quinn usually got back?’ Mirabelle cut in.
‘It varied. I mean, he wasn’t nine to five. But Helen knew he’d be home for dinner. She’d got liver in.’
Both Billy Randall and the constable nodded, Mirabelle noted, as if this was a sign of Mrs Quinn doing her duty. She tried to imagine herself preparing dinner for a husband. She scarcely bothered for herself at the end of the day, never mind anyone else.
‘So Mrs Quinn probably spent some time in the kitchen after you’d left.’ Mirabelle stared up the hallway at the open kitchen door. ‘And we can assume she left the bottle in the sitting room.’
‘Helen wasn’t much of a cook. She wouldn’t have spent hours in there or anything.’
‘But it must have happened when he got home,’ the constable concluded. ‘Or, at least, the bottle must have been drugged at some point after you left, Mrs Randall. But Inspector Robinson must know. I take it you suffered no ill effects?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Why would Phil want to drug his own drink?’ Billy Randall cut in. He looked bereft as he scrabbled for something to get his friend off the hook. ‘I mean, if you think he did it, well, he wasn’t compos mentis that morning. Why would he drug himself too?’
It was an odd question. The constable didn’t reply and Mirabelle didn’t explain. It would have been the best way for Quinn to give himself some kind of alibi. Not the best alibi he could have hoped for, but still. Instead of spelling this out, she nodded towards the rear of the house. ‘Could I have a look outside?’
The constable dropped his hands to his side as if this was a terrible imposition. ‘I suppose so,’ he said wearily. ‘The boys have finished and you’ve seen the rest of the place.’
Mirabelle crossed to the window and picked up her torch from the carpet. Then she cut up the hallway and through the kitchen. She slid the bolt on the back door. ‘They didn’t usually lock it, did they?’
‘I suppose the police secured the place before they left.’ Vi followed her. The garden was pitch black. The light from the houses illuminated a snatch of ground a few feet into the grass. The moon tonight was slim and the sky cloudy. Mirabelle snapped on her torch and directed the beam into the blackness.
‘So the gardens back on to each other? They’re contained, I mean?’
‘Yes. Mill Lane on this side and Deacons Drive over there.’
‘But there are vacant lots, aren’t there? Someone might have slipped through and climbed the fence.’ She walked up the short path, which cut through a vegetable patch. Beyond that, there was a stretch of lawn. The grass sloped upwards as she stepped on to it. A few doors down, a dog barked.
Vi pointed ahead. ‘There’s a gap between the houses there, if that’s what you’re looking for.’
Mirabelle didn’t say that she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. As the constable pointed out, the police had been all over the garden. She walked upwards. The cool evening air smelled green. Turning, it occurred to her that from here, with the light on, you could see through the kitchen window and into the bedroom too. Had the killer loitered, she wondered, biding their time until they could slip safely through the back door or even through the window on to Helen Quinn’s side of the bed? It was an excellent vantage point and, once it was dark, no one in the houses would be able to see who was out here. Then it struck her, with the camber of the lawn, it would be easy to keep an eye not only on the Quinns, but also on the neighbouring houses. With the lights on, you could see what everyone was up to, right around the block. You could wait till everyone was in bed. Robinson’s men had been here in the daytime, but it was the darkness that lent the true meaning to this little part of the puzzle. Carefully, Mirabelle crouched down – the grass was young and damp. There were a couple of bushes to provide cover. There was no sign of where someone might have rested, but they had been here all right. She could feel them.
Below her, Billy Randall and the constable hovered at the back entrance to the house, but Vi had stopped further in, next to the vegetable patch. Mirabelle watched as she turned and caught sight of the stain on the mattress through the window. She hadn’t seen it before. Slowly, Vi raised her hand to cover her mouth. Billy stepped forward to steady his wife and she folded into his arms. A wailing sound snaked up the garden as Vi took in the grisly evidence. Mirabelle wondered if the years had hardened her. The truth was she felt curiosity more than anything. Phil Quinn hadn’t killed his wife, she was convinced of that, no matter what Robinson had charged him with. There were too many small details that predicated against it – a man might kill the woman he loved, but most would do so in anger, on the spur of the moment, and if he did premeditate a killing, well, only a fool would do it this way. Vi had been right about that from the beginning. She walked back down the path. Billy Randall glared as if it was her fault his wife was howling on his shoulder. Vi gradually unfolded, heaving for breath.
‘You better find out who did it,’ she said. ‘You better get Phil off.’
‘I’ll try,’ Mirabelle promised.
The policeman shuffled on the back doorstep, awkwardly aware that Mrs Randall hadn’t addressed her comment to him. ‘Come along.’ He cleared his throat. ‘We’d best get all of you home.’