That evening Mirabelle had just drawn a bath and drizzled in some lavender oil when the buzzer sounded. She checked the clock. It was only seven. The rain had continued all day and now the light was beginning to fade and the street-lamps were casting their honey glow. Inside, the curtains were half drawn and the flat felt unusually warm. She had spent the afternoon thinking about the case. About Fred and poor Marcus, the boy just sitting there, waiting for his old man to die. Now, she found herself running over tiny details and sorting her laundry as she did so. The bed was piled with clothes as she swept past barefoot and opened the front door. On the doorstep, Superintendent McGregor’s hat was dark with rain.
‘I finished early,’ he said. ‘I thought you might like dinner. There’s a French place opened in Rottingdean.’
Mirabelle kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘That sounds nice.’
McGregor hung up his coat and hat and strode into the drawing room to pour a drink. ‘It smells good in here.’ He smiled, the cut glass shimmering.
‘I was going to have a bath.’ Mirabelle tipped her chin towards the drinks tray, encouraging him to pour her a tot of whisky.
‘You still could, if you like. I’ll wash your back.’
Mirabelle settled into one of the armchairs by the fire. She liked it when he flirted with her.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me?’
‘May I wash your back?’
‘No, silly. About the case.’
‘Of course.’ He became more serious. ‘Actually, I have some news. I managed to get a copy of the post-mortem. Helen Quinn was stabbed with a thin, sharp blade, probably a flick-knife. We’re looking for a slasher.’
‘Did Phil Quinn own a flick-knife?’
‘Phil hates that kind of thing. There’s a lot of knife crime at home. When it’s around you, you go one of two ways. Have you heard of a Cheshire grin? Or rather, in Scotland, we call it a Glasgow smile?’
Mirabelle shook her head.
‘It’s a gang punishment. It’s becoming more common down here. Knife crime is on the rise in London but we haven’t seen much in Brighton. Not yet.’ The superintendent paused, finding it strange talking to Mirabelle about this. She looked beautiful in the lamplight. Why had he thought she’d know about the Glasgow smile? She was a lady. Perhaps it was that contradiction – Mirabelle’s grace set against her grit – that always reeled him in. He turned his attention back to the case. ‘None of the knives in the house – in the kitchen, that is – match the weapon that killed Mrs Quinn. It was a four-inch blade and it would fillet you. Robinson hasn’t been able to find it.’
‘But he’s charged Quinn anyway?’
‘The evidence is purely circumstantial. But Robinson doesn’t mind that. I managed to speak to Phil before they took him up to Lewes. He hasn’t taken it well. I told him we’re working on it.’
‘And Robinson?’
‘I tried. The knife that killed Helen Quinn was a criminal’s weapon, but, when I pointed that out, he just snorted. One way or another, it looks like there’s a gang involved. It’s made me jumpy. I don’t understand. There’s never been anything like that around Phil.’
‘And the drug used to knock them out was morphine?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘Educated guess.’
‘The doc reckons Helen Quinn might have still felt some pain – if it was only that. He said she’d been drugged on top of the stuff in the gin bottle. The morphine knocked her out and then she was injected. They found a mark on her arm. In any case, both drugs are too widely available to be easily traced – any pharmacy or hospital would have them in stock and there have been no recent break-ins or thefts that could be the source. There’s nothing like that recorded in Brighton over the last six months – more, actually. There have been a few in London, but it’s impossible to link the drugs to a particular robbery. Tell me, what else have you been up to, apart from making educated guesses?’
Mirabelle thought of her introduction to Mr Davidson at Tongdean, her afternoon in Eastbourne, being caught by the beat bobby at Mill Lane, Fred heaving for breath and then she and Vesta in the long hospital corridor handing three illegal guns to Marcus Fox. ‘I’ll go over it with you when I’m in the bath,’ she said. ‘Come and talk to me.’
Vesta had chosen peach for the walls. Above the sink, there was a wide mirror in a gilded frame. It reflected the steaming tub, from which lavender scent was wafting through the flat. On the shelf, a line of glass bottles dripped with condensation. The clock on the wall ticked. McGregor settled by the door and watched intently as Mirabelle slipped out of her clothes and stepped into the warm water. He sipped his whisky, his eyes still, as her skin distorted under the surface and the water lapped against the enamel. Once she was comfortable, she offered him a large sponge. He laid his glass on the side and began to wash her, planting kisses on her slick skin. She picked up his drink and took a sip, letting the whisky evaporate on her tongue, the taste smoky in contrast to the lavender on the air. He bit her shoulder.
‘We’ll never get to dinner if you start that,’ she said.
‘Damn dinner.’ He smiled, as he took back his glass and leaned against the wall so he could look at her. ‘You’re the most beautiful woman I ever saw.’
Later, they shared fish and chips instead of going to Rottingdean and walked along the front. It was dark and the rain had eased to a fine drizzle, almost like lace. Now and then, they stopped to kiss under the umbrella. The pubs would close soon and the first people to leave were stumbling towards their bus stops or starting the long walk home. A line of taxis waited at the bottom of the road, the drivers smoking.
‘Want to dance?’ McGregor suggested.
‘Where?’ Mirabelle didn’t fancy the ballrooms around the pier with the girls in bright skirts and their keen young men. It was too raucous. Her dubiety showed. McGregor laughed.
‘Don’t worry. I know somewhere,’ he said, pulling her up Queen’s Road as if they were young and in love.
After turning off, he bundled her through a glossy black door and up a steep set of red-carpeted stairs with a banister of thick rope on brass loops. Inside, the windows were blacked out. There was a polished ebony bar in one corner and several tables around which comfortable chairs were arranged, some plush to match the carpet and others upholstered in brown leather. The place glowed red with a hint of neon and the effect was luxurious and forbidden. In the background, music was playing. A love song. Mirabelle liked it immediately. Most of the tables were vacant, but at one a young couple, deep in conversation, were drinking cocktails, while at another, three old men in evening dress smoked cigars and played cards.
‘This is lovely. What’s it called?’ Mirabelle asked.
‘I don’t know. There’s no sign.’
‘They’d call it a boite in Paris.’
‘Let’s call it that then. The Boite.’
A maître d’ emerged. He sported a moustache and his hair was slicked back so it shone. ‘Alan,’ he said, shaking McGregor’s hand heartily and laying his palm on the superintendent’s shoulder to guide him to a table. ‘Nice to see you.’
‘I thought you might have music tonight. We felt like dancing. You haven’t met my girlfriend. Mirabelle Bevan.’
Mirabelle felt a frisson as she shrugged off the strangeness of being described that way. There was hardly ever an introduction, hardly anyone to say it to. All those years ago, Jack had never called her that. Not once.
‘How do you do, Miss Bevan?’ The man indicated where they should sit.
McGregor perused the bar. ‘Have you any champagne? I feel like a celebration.’
‘Of course. There’s some Argentinian liqueur that came our way this week. I can recommend it – just a whisper of orange in the glass to bring up the taste of the bubbly.’
Mirabelle smiled. That was Fred. Grafting to the last.
‘Champagne cocktail?’ McGregor offered.
‘Yes. Lovely.’
A discreet, Italian-looking waiter appeared with an ice bucket and two crystal flutes while another man removed two tables to make a dance floor. This place ran like clockwork, she realised. It was comforting to know that on a rainy Saturday night there was somewhere so smart up the road.
McGregor held out his hand and Mirabelle got up and folded into his arms as they moved to the rhythm. She laid her head on his shoulder. From far off, she could hear ice chink. It felt a luxury to have the place almost entirely to themselves. When the song finished, McGregor caught Mirabelle’s hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. She laughed. They sat down and sipped their drinks.
Then, as the song changed, Mirabelle noticed a plump woman appear in the doorway. She was wearing thick make-up and her auburn hair was swept into an old-fashioned bun. Handing her coat and umbrella to the waiter, the woman revealed a well-cut, jade taffeta cocktail dress. Mirabelle wondered momentarily if she was a retired madam. She had a seedy but matronly look and then there was that lipstick. The maître d’ rushed to kiss her on the cheek. Then, they pushed into the room together, Mirabelle noticed, rather than him leading her to a table. As they came closer, she caught the words: ‘I’m bored, Dan, all the way out there on my own. I thought I’d nip into town for a bit of fun.’ The maître d’ smiled apologetically as if he was trying to shoo the woman along, but McGregor’s interest was piqued. He rose to his feet.
‘Good evening,’ he said.
‘Good evening.’ The woman stopped. She looked suddenly almost regal.
Put on the spot, the maître d’ fumbled before introducing her. ‘This is my wife, Superintendent,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Ruthie.’
‘Mrs Gleeson.’
Mrs Gleeson grinned, as if this was more than she was expecting. ‘Bring me a brandy on ice,’ she said dismissively to the waiter and then moved forward with her gloved hand outstretched. ‘Alan McGregor,’ Gleeson continued the introductions. ‘And Mirabelle Bevan.’
‘How do you do.’
Ruth Gleeson stared pointedly at the chair in front of her. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ said McGregor, ‘please join us. We’re having a lazy Saturday night. Your husband has brought a little bit of Mayfair to Brighton.’
‘Ruthie, please,’ she replied. ‘Well, it’s better than those dreadful coffee shops that are opening willy-nilly. We always liked a nightclub, didn’t we, dear? During the war, when Dan came home on leave, we were always out on the town. No kids in those days. And hardly any money either.’ She gave a little laugh as if she was nostalgic for old times, which Mirabelle suspected she wasn’t. Close up, it was apparent that nothing on Mrs Gleeson’s person was understated. A thick bracelet of diamonds peeped from under her cuff.
As the waiters fussed, serving drinks, and the Gleesons sat down, Mirabelle whispered in McGregor’s ear. ‘Isn’t Gleeson the name of one of Phil Quinn’s partners?’
‘Yes. That’s him. He sank money into this place last year on top of Hove Cars.’
She eyed the superintendent with a smile as she took in this information. He hadn’t simply brought her here for fun then. They were, to all intents and purposes, working. Pulling in her chair, she leaned towards Mrs Gleeson. ‘How many children do you have?’ she asked.
‘Three,’ Ruthie replied. ‘Can you believe it?’
Gleeson looked mildly uncomfortable. He was a good-looking man and he seemed aware that his wife didn’t match him, though maybe it had been different when they first met. Sometimes couples became more like each other, other times they diverged. Mix and match, Vesta called it. The gramophone was set going again, this time with big band music.
‘We’ve done all right.’ Gleeson sipped his whisky, before he brought up what was really on his mind. ‘It’s a bad business about Phil,’ he said. ‘He’s charged and on remand now. Did you know?’
‘I heard you engaged a solicitor,’ McGregor said.
‘Fat lot of good it’s done us.’
‘Where are you from?’ Ruthie asked Mirabelle, turning towards her as if they were girls sharing a conversation and there was nobody else at the table.
‘We just live around the corner,’ Mirabelle replied, without specifying that she and Superintendent McGregor resided around different corners even if both of them were close. ‘This club is lovely. Did you help set it up?’
‘Dan always wanted a place. He knew how to get it right all on his own.’
‘I would have thought you wanted a garage, Mr Gleeson? I mean, you’re one of the partners at Hove Cars, aren’t you? This is another thing entirely.’
Gleeson lit a cigar. A spiral of smoke floated across the table. ‘The garage was Phil’s idea. It’s a corking little business and we’ve all done well out of it, but—’ Dan gestured openly ‘—I could come here every night and never feel done in. It’s a pleasure.’
Ruthie smirked. She sipped her brandy. ‘You do come every night,’ she said.
‘Gosh. It must be tiring,’ Mirabelle insisted. ‘I mean, Hove Cars during the day and then this.’
McGregor watched her. Really, she was remarkable. Never off the job.
Gleeson shrugged. ‘There’s less and less for me to do at Hove these days. At the beginning, we only had two cars and we drove them round the clock between the three of us. I’m not kidding. We had a twenty-four-hour service. We used to kip in the office if there weren’t any calls. Now, that was tiring. But then business took off and we bought more cars and took on drivers. These days, Phil runs the contracts and the men – until this awful business. Tommy Fourcade sees to the cars – he’s the mechanic.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Accounts. I’m good with figures. But the way I’ve set it up, the place runs itself. I pay in in the morning – always up to the bank myself. Then there’s monthly figures – cash flow – but that’s all. Except I’ve been in the last few days helping out because of what happened.’
Ruthie shook her head. ‘Terrible,’ she said. ‘I never would have thought it.’
‘None of us thought it—’ her husband’s tone had an edge ‘—cos Phil didn’t do it, love.’
Ruthie tinkled the ice in her glass as a form of protest. ‘Well, if Phil is innocent, who killed poor Helen then?’
Gleeson deferred to McGregor. ‘We don’t know yet,’ the superintendent said. ‘There’s a difference of opinion.’ He attempted an unaccustomed level of diplomacy. ‘My colleague thinks Phil did kill her . . . he’s charged him.’
‘Exactly,’ Mrs Gleeson cut in. ‘It’s only logical. It’s always the husband. You see it time and time again in the papers. What else did she have, little Helen Quinn? She was pretty, but what else did she have but her husband and look what he did to her?’
‘Now, Ruthie.’ Gleeson stopped his wife. ‘Phil and Helen were a cracking couple. They were devoted.’
‘She must have done something to set him off.’
Mirabelle’s eyes widened. The champagne felt suddenly refreshing as she realised Mrs Gleeson had made a good point even if it was misdirected. She was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before. What if Helen Quinn had done something – Helen herself – not Phil. Everyone investigating the poor woman’s death had assumed the murder must be something to do with her husband – either that he did it or that it was some kind of blackmail attempt or revenge. But what if Helen Quinn was murdered on her own account? The idea rankled. If it had been a man who’d died, such assumptions never would have been made. Robinson obviously hadn’t considered it either, or, if he had, he’d dismissed it straight away.
‘I’ve been so stupid,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Sorry, dear?’ Mrs Gleeson leaned in. ‘What did you say?’
Mirabelle looked up. ‘Did you know Mrs Quinn well?’ she asked. ‘Where did she come from?’
‘I don’t know. She wasn’t really a friend. Helen was much younger and they had no children.’ Mrs Gleeson sat back as if she was retiring from battle.
It wouldn’t have surprised Mirabelle if the woman had raised her hands in surrender. She cast her eyes towards Dan Gleeson. ‘Do you know? Anything about Mrs Quinn?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said, puffing on his cigar. Ruth held out her hand and he dug in his pocket and withdrew a silver cigarette case from which she extracted a smoke. Gleeson fired his lighter so she could kindle it. He seemed to be trying to recall the details of the year or so since Helen Quinn had arrived. It was interesting – clearly neither of the Gleesons thought of the poor woman as anything other than Phil Quinn’s wife. ‘Phil met her at the Palais,’ Gleeson reflected. ‘She was down from London. It was one of those whirlwind romances. He snapped her up pretty quickly.’
‘Did she work in London?’
‘She must have. She wasn’t posh or anything. Whatever she did, she gave it up when they got hitched – no need, you see. She was a nice woman. Terrible cook, though. They made a kind of joke of it.’
Mirabelle’s eyes darted. She thought of the apprentice at the garage who’d said Mrs Quinn had brought her husband sandwiches. Perhaps that was part of their joke. Maybe breakfast that morning had been inedible.
‘What is it, Mirabelle?’ McGregor laid a hand on her arm.
‘We’ve been looking at the wrong thing. We’ve been concentrating on him. Don’t you see? We never considered Helen Quinn might have been killed because of something she’d done.’
Mrs Gleeson snorted. ‘That scrap of a girl!’ she said. ‘Ten years younger than Phil? What could she possibly have done?’
Mirabelle thought of the women at the party in the suite in Eastbourne. They all had secrets that ordinary people wouldn’t believe. Being a fallen woman wasn’t written large on you any more than anything else. It was only a matter of detail that most people wouldn’t even notice. Helen Quinn might have had secrets and it seemed, if she did, she was good at keeping them.
‘I’d like to know more about her. Did you meet her family at the wedding?’
Mrs Gleeson thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know that she had any family. Maybe an uncle. Do you remember, Dan? An old fellow. He sat at the side all afternoon and went through a power of stout.’
The waiter poured more cocktails. ‘Have you got any of that rock and roll?’ McGregor asked.
Mrs Gleeson rolled her eyes. ‘That rubbish! What would you want to put that on for? You can’t dance properly to rock and roll. Put on “Mambo Italiano”.’
The waiter rummaged till he found it and there was a burst of brass. ‘Let’s mambo,’ she said and Mr Gleeson got to his feet. You could see they were a couple now. Dancing knocked years off Mrs Gleeson.
‘I want to take you home,’ McGregor whispered, as he eased his arm around Mirabelle’s waist. A smile played on her lips. It was too late to take this line of inquiry any further tonight but it was a step forward at least. ‘All right,’ she said, as it occurred to her that they were becoming adept at enjoying themselves. ‘Let’s go.’