Mirabelle woke to the chime of her doorbell. The bell used to make a muffled sound that was easy to ignore, but the year before Vesta had refurbished Mirabelle’s flat after a fire and the new bell was more of a buzzer, and impossible to sleep through. Fumbling across the pillows, she reached for her silver-grey silk wrap in the half-light and stumbled barefoot through the drawing room and into the hall. As she passed the clock, she realised it was scarcely eight o’clock. Vesta was waiting patiently on the doorstep clutching a brown paper bag in one hand and a small bottle of milk in the other. ‘Breakfast,’ she said, holding them up. ‘The rolls are still warm. I’ll make us tea.’
Bemused, Mirabelle stepped back to let her in. Vesta knew her way around Mirabelle’s scarcely used kitchen better than Mirabelle knew it herself. The sound of the kettle being put on to boil echoed in the hallway. Mirabelle went to find a pair of slippers. As she pulled back her bedroom curtains, the long window revealed a bank of heavy, grey cloud. A man with a sorry-looking collie was walking along the pebble beach beyond the grass. She scrabbled to find her slippers and emerged into the drawing room where she drew the curtains on to a larger version of the same view.
‘Awful day,’ she said, as Vesta set down a tray on the dining table that Mirabelle never used and proceeded to pour tea into pristine cups. There was no point in asking about jam. Or honey. If you wanted to eat anything in Mirabelle’s house, you’d best bring it with you. Mirabelle settled into a chair and accepted the proffered cup, noticing that, though she hadn’t seen it before, the design was rather attractive. ‘Did you find out about the poison?’ she asked.
‘Marlene is looking into it. I came because Fred was admitted to hospital.’
‘What?’
‘I came round yesterday evening but you weren’t here. It was his chest. We probably shouldn’t have left him in that damp, old cottage. I was thinking about it all last night. A man like that on his own and poorly.’
Mirabelle didn’t say that in the past Fred had managed to get himself out of far worse than a sore throat in a slum down an alleyway. During the war, he’d undergone some of the most arduous missions with which she’d been involved.
‘He collapsed in the street,’ Vesta continued. ‘They brought him in in an ambulance.’
‘Have they contacted his wife? Did you offer to help?’
‘He didn’t want me to fetch her. He asked me to get you, Mirabelle. To tell you something about his son and a painting. It was difficult for him to speak, but he said you’d figure it out. Do you know his son?’
Mirabelle bit thoughtfully into the roll. The butter had melted. Fred didn’t have children of his own but he had smuggled a boy out of Spain during the war. A Jewish kid or maybe a gypsy. A dark-haired orphan, anyway. He’d felt responsible for the child and had taken him in. ‘I met the boy once,’ she said. ‘It’s a long time ago. Fred adopted him. I don’t know where he ended up.’
‘Where does his wife live?’
Mirabelle pulled a face to indicate she had no idea. Fred had never been keen to discuss his wife. Mirabelle wasn’t the curious type – she didn’t dig in the files unless she was looking for something in particular. The only time she’d have had to look up details of Fred’s wife’s whereabouts would have been if Fred had been killed. Doing it out of nosiness would have felt like a betrayal, as if she had given up on him. The sound of rain spattered the long windows.
‘He was heaving for breath. It was terrible,’ Vesta said. ‘He seemed quite desperate about the picture. I was sure you’d know what he meant.’
‘Well, if he asked us to look for a painting, we’d better do it.’
‘A painting and his son,’ Vesta itemised.
Mirabelle nodded.
‘Did you find out anything at Tongdean?’ the girl enquired.
Mirabelle wasn’t sure how to reply. She didn’t want to tell Vesta she’d ended up at a party in a hotel suite, considering whether to sleep with any of the men there for a surprisingly generous sum of money. ‘Not really,’ she said, still taken aback by how tempting it had been. ‘Though, it’s what American jazz singers call a cathouse all right. I met one of the kittens. And then last night I went back to the Quinns’ house. It had the most astonishing atmosphere, as if no one had lived there for years. There’s a vantage point outside. On the night of the murder, whoever killed Mrs Quinn was watching from the rear. The truth is anyone could have got into the house but not anyone could have killed Helen Quinn. I paced it through. It was a horrible crime. I mean, so violent.’
Vesta laid down her teacup. ‘You better get dressed.’
Mirabelle chose a dark green day dress and heels. She picked out a gabardine coat, tied a moss-coloured scarf over her hair and picked a silver-handled umbrella from the stand. As the women left the house, she opened it to shelter them. Outside, the street was slick, the grass above the pebble beach was swelled and boggy as they turned towards the main road.
‘It isn’t a day to be on a bicycle,’ Vesta said. That was how she usually got about.
Outside a row of shops, several children in wellington boots splashed along the pavement, completely soaked. One child peered hopelessly into a puddle, holding his fishing net as if at any moment a fish might appear. The traffic was only partially slowed by the weather and, as the cars cut through the puddles, they sprayed the pedestrians. Mirabelle and Vesta took shelter in a shop doorway.
Luckily, the buses were operating as normal and it didn’t take long to be picked up. Inside, the windows were steamy and, at the back, the two women shared a cigarette to keep warm. They settled in silence as they bought their tickets from the conductor and Vesta cleaned a patch of window. ‘Almost there,’ she reported. Mirabelle fiddled with a tassel on her umbrella.
Then, dismounting back on to the pavement, she raised the brolly and Vesta grabbed her arm, sheltering from the rain as they turned towards the sea. The laneway outside Fred’s cottage was too slim to accommodate two women side by side or, for that matter, an open umbrella, so, taking their chances, they trotted down it single file, the rain bouncing at angles off the uneven ground. Vesta stamped energetically as she came to a halt. On the step a young man stood with his arms folded, an intermittent waterfall of raindrops channelled along the brim of his hat.
‘D’you know where he’s gone?’ he said. ‘He’s always here on Saturdays.’
‘He’s sick,’ Mirabelle explained. ‘Step aside.’
She made short work of the lock, standing in front of the fellow so that he wouldn’t see she was using picks rather than a key. The three of them bundled indoors. Inside, it was drier than the laneway, though drips fell through a gap in the ceiling into a wide tin bucket. The light was even more dim than usual. Glad to see the chickens had gone, Vesta went to the counter and lit a camping lamp. Mirabelle took off the sodden silk scarf and laid it over the back of a chair.
‘Who are you?’ she asked the man.
‘I come every Saturday. It’s a regular order.’ He wouldn’t meet her eye.
‘Do you know where Fred keeps it?’
The man nodded.
‘Well, go on then. If you give me the money, I’ll pass it on.’
Round-shouldered, the fellow disappeared into the room to the rear of the cottage. There was the sound of packing cases being moved and then he returned with bulging pockets and thrust several shillings into Mirabelle’s palm, mumbled his goodbye and disappeared out of the door. Vesta laughed.
‘I don’t want to imagine,’ Mirabelle said, putting the coins into her purse.
Vesta cast the light around the room, which seemed especially grubby today. ‘We have our mission,’ she said. ‘A picture and something about his son. We’d better see what we can find.’
They began to root around. Fred certainly had a diverse stock. There were boxes containing bottles of Argentinian orange liquor and a mixed case of Italian perfume packed in straw and sealed with wax. A jute sack turned out to contain Hershey bars that Mirabelle guessed had been stolen from the US army. The Americans still had a base in Yorkshire and, even though rationing was over, there were some things it was difficult to get – American chocolate being one of them. Behind the counter, there were shoeboxes full of insoles, perched on three brand-new refrigerators. Then, in the back room, there were medical supplies. ‘This will be what that boy wanted,’ Vesta said, lifting a condom between her thumb and first finger and looking delighted. Mirabelle ignored her.
‘You said a picture.’ She leafed through a stack of paintings propped against the plaster, protected by old blankets. They were traditional oils, framed in gilt. They looked valuable and she wondered momentarily where Fred had got them. One in particular looked disconcertingly familiar. ‘Do you think this is what he meant?’
‘I don’t know.’ Vesta checked the rear of the pictures one by one. ‘But look, there’s a note on the back.’
‘Delivery instructions,’ Mirabelle said flatly. ‘I doubt we’ll find anything directly helpful, to be honest – nothing personal for a start. Fred knows what he’s doing.’
‘I had a vision of a child being trapped,’ Vesta said. ‘Fred seemed to think it was urgent. Life or death.’
Mirabelle shrugged. She tried the back door. It opened on to a miserable backyard with an old-fashioned privy. The water ran in rivulets off the back wall. She picked her way across the mud and opened the thin wooden door of the outhouse. Always check everywhere – those were the rules. Just keep going.
Inside, the privy did not smell as bad as she expected and it was dry. Beside the pan there was a pile of newspapers torn into strips. Above it, Fred had hung a clipping taken from the London Illustrated News Coronation edition, published three years before. It portrayed Her Majesty arrayed in her coronation regalia. Fred had always been patriotic. Mirabelle cocked her head, pausing only momentarily before carefully removing the picture, trying not to tear it.
Removing the cutting revealed a hole in the wood. Behind it was the brick boundary wall. Glancing over her shoulder, she decided not to call Vesta, not just yet. Mirabelle ran her hand over the facings. Sure enough, several of them were loose. Carefully, she drew out one brick. Then another. In less than a minute, she had a space big enough to put her hand inside. As she fumbled, she found three guns – all ex-service pistols. One of them had three notches cut into its handle. She tried not to think what that might mean and moved on, removing half a dozen boxes of bullets, a stack of money wrapped in oilskin and a couple of notarised deeds, which looked as if they were ownership documents for properties in London – a freehold in Notting Hill and a leasehold in Chelsea. Mirabelle stepped back and surveyed the pile as she leaned against the wall.
‘Oh God.’ The words only barely crossed her lips. ‘Fred thinks he’s going to die.’
Vesta appeared in the doorway. The rain had worsened and water was beginning to seep over the makeshift threshold, which was only an old piece of wood tacked on to the ground. ‘What is it?’
Mirabelle held up the money.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s his legacy. That’s what he meant. Life or death. He wants us to find his son and give him this.’
‘Marlene said they can do wonders for bronchitis.’ Vesta didn’t sound convinced.
‘Poor Fred,’ Mirabelle said sadly. She bundled everything into her arms and handed Vesta the boxes of bullets. Back in the cottage, they found a shopping bag to pack them in. Mirabelle checked each item, then wrapped the guns in tea towels and stowed them safely. Vesta watched, impressed by her competence. ‘I’m not going to ask,’ she promised with a grin.
‘I suppose we better go and visit him,’ Mirabelle replied.
‘The son?’
‘No. Fred, of course.’
Mirabelle locked the front door and the women splashed up the lane. On the main street, the pavements were busy with Saturday shoppers and people were heading into restaurants for an early lunch. Mirabelle checked her watch. It was only midday. It seemed like a lot more than forty-eight hours since Helen Quinn’s body had been discovered and Superintendent McGregor had hammered up the office stairs, demanding she look into it.
Ahead of her, a woman in a smart red two-piece was picking her way across the road under a stylish green umbrella. Mirabelle caught herself wondering just how many women were funding themselves by means of the kind of party she’d attended only the afternoon before, in the very way she’d considered. How much of this tawdry trade was hidden in Brighton, just below the surface?
Vesta took control of the umbrella. ‘It looks as if it’s set,’ she said. ‘Makes you wish you had wellingtons, doesn’t it? Like the kiddies.’
Mirabelle took her arm. The girl would make a good mother, she thought. Though she obviously hadn’t yet come to terms with her condition or, for that matter, told Charlie. There’d be a new air about her when she had. Mirabelle had noticed it before – a kind of confidence that came with pregnancy. A very female kind of triumph.
‘We’ll be lucky to get a cab in this weather,’ she said, ‘but let’s go up North Street and give it a try.’