The Sunday bells were ringing all over the city as they ate breakfast in McGregor’s bedroom. No meals could be taken in the Arundel’s dining room outside the times allotted for guests for fear that the guests might expect similar privileges. Miss Brownlee had accommodated McGregor, however, with a generous tray of toast and tea and a crumpled copy of a Sunday newspaper. The butter was refrigerated almost solid and was impossible to spread, so Mirabelle spooned a thick layer of marmalade over her toast and bit into it with a satisfied murmur. She was hungry. When she’d eaten, she’d get to the business of finding out more about Helen Quinn. In the meantime, she glanced at McGregor sipping his tea, engrossed in the sports pages before he moved on to the crossword. It felt like a comfortable arrangement, if rather domestic. Maybe I’m getting used to this, she thought.
When the front door sounded neither of them paid much attention. There were a good deal of comings and goings, especially around late morning and early afternoon when people checked out and checked in. As a result, when, in less than a minute, there was a smart knock on the bedroom door, they were taken by surprise. As a fresh-faced constable peered nervously into the room, Mirabelle glanced at the curtains, wondering if she ought to make some effort to conceal herself despite the fact it was clearly too late. The boy must have at least rudimentary observation skills. The force didn’t take them otherwise.
‘Sorry, sir,’ the constable apologised. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.
‘Ellison, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘There’s a body.’
McGregor continued to sip his tea. ‘Murder?’
‘No, sir. Suspicious circumstances.’
‘How suspicious?’
‘Suicide, sir. The body was found on the Downs.’
‘Apart from the fact the Downs are outside our jurisdiction, I can’t see what’s suspicious about that.’
‘Well, that’s the thing, sir. He killed himself elsewhere. Someone must have moved the body. Dumped him. And he’d been staying in Brighton. He was last seen in his hotel on Friday afternoon. Ex-military, it seems. The Chief wanted a senior officer to take charge and Inspector Robinson is . . .’
McGregor cast his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Robinson is resting on his laurels over the case I ought to have had.’ He drained his cup. ‘All right,’ he said and got up. ‘You were assigned to the Quinn murder, weren’t you?’ he asked, casually, as he put on his jacket.
Ellison nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Know anything about the girl’s family? Her past?’
Constable Ellison shook his head. ‘I was searching for the knife.’
‘Was Inspector Robinson interested in her family?’
‘You have to inform the family, sir. If there is one.’
‘Yes, Ellison. I know. And did he?’
‘No one mentioned it, sir.’
‘I see.’
‘Then you’ve no idea where the dead woman came from?’
‘No, sir.’
McGregor kissed Mirabelle on the cheek. ‘There,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He squeezed her arm before grabbing his hat and ushering the boy out of the door.
Mirabelle leaned against the window frame and watched as McGregor left the house and slipped into the back seat of the Black Maria that was parked at the top of the street. She savoured the slant of his shoulders beneath his dark coat as Ellison dotted around him. The sky was blue today and she lingered for a moment at the window, watching the wheeling gulls as she finished her toast and wondered about Helen Quinn and whether somewhere she had relations who were unaware of her death. She’d better get to it.
She grabbed her coat and slipped out of the house, closing the gate behind her. Walking westwards, she strode out smartly for Old Steine and from there caught a bus north, getting off at the now familiar stop for Mill Lane. The neighbourhood had scrubbed up for Sunday and the few people she passed were in their best clothes, either on their way to church or coming home again. The men tipped their hats as they passed and the women murmured their good afternoons. Halfway up the street, Mirabelle strode up the garden path at the Randalls’ house and knocked on the door. It was as good a place to start as any. Vi Randall had known Helen Quinn better than anyone. The door burst open in seconds to reveal Vi wearing a yellow apron, her extended stomach outlined by the daffodils printed on the surface of the cloth.
‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘they send a female police officer when someone dies.’ Her fingers were quivering and her eyes were pink. She’d clearly been crying and she looked as if she hadn’t slept. She’d pinned her hair into a roll, but it had slipped into a lopsided mess. The effect would have been comical if she hadn’t been so upset.
‘I’m not actually a police officer,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Randall?’
Vi seemed unsteady on her feet and her eyes darted up and down the street as she grabbed Mirabelle’s arm. ‘Is he dead? You can tell me,’ she gasped.
‘Is who dead? What are you talking about?’
Vi heaved a sob that came from somewhere deep in the daffodils. ‘Billy didn’t come home last night. I don’t know what’s happened to him.’ She stepped back, pulling Mirabelle into the bright hallway. Today there was a bunch of hollyhocks in a long bottle that must have once held cordial. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, closing the front door.
‘Good gracious,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘Has he ever not come home before?’
‘No.’ Vi was insistent. ‘Not since we moved to Brighton. When we were first married it used to happen now and then in London. But never down here. It’s a clean slate in Brighton. We both promised. He wouldn’t. Not with me in this condition. Oh God, something terrible must have happened.’
Distractedly, she set off into the sitting room and Mirabelle followed her, watching as the pregnant woman paced up and down the threadbare carpet with the palm of her hand pressed into the small of her back, just as she had the day Vesta had been there. It didn’t seem right to sit down, so Mirabelle hovered behind the patched sofa.
‘How long has your husband been missing?’
‘Since yesterday. It’s half-day at the factory on Saturday. They knock off at lunchtime. I had eggs on toast all ready to go and he was going to fix the cupboard upstairs. It’s coming off its hinges. I waited and waited but he didn’t come home.’
‘Did you call the factory?’
‘There’s nobody in the office at the weekend. I don’t know what to do, Miss Bevan.’ Vi sounded hysterical.
Mirabelle kept her voice steady. ‘Where does Mr Randall work?’
‘CVA. On the other side of the railway. At Portland Road by the cricket ground. It’s only half an hour’s walk. He’s usually back by one on a Saturday.’
‘What do they make?’
‘Machine tools. He’s got a mathematical mind, my Billy. The pay’s not bad, just not good enough, not quite. Oh, Miss Bevan. He’s never done anything like this before.’
Mirabelle did not point out that Vi had already said her husband had stayed out all night several times when they lived in London. She wondered why this seemingly devoted couple had needed the fresh start to which Mrs Randall had alluded. Vi paced up and down one more time and then turned.
‘Oh God,’ she said.
‘Do you think we should call the police?’ Mirabelle suggested. ‘I mean, if you’re really worried and, well, there are suspicious circumstances.’
‘What suspicious circumstances?’ Vi sounded hysterical.
‘Well,’ Mirabelle had started now and she might as well say it, ‘the murder next door.’
‘But they locked Phil up.’ The poor woman was frantic.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Mirabelle suggested. ‘Can I get you a glass of water? A cup of tea?’
Vi Randall glared at Mirabelle, but she relented and flopped into the armchair by the fire. ‘If you aren’t here to tell me Billy’s been done in, then why did you come?’ she asked.
‘I came to talk about Helen Quinn,’ Mirabelle admitted, her mind racing to figure out what might have happened to Billy. Was there some connection she’d missed?
‘Helen? What about her?’
‘I wondered, where she came from? If you knew her maiden name?’
‘Maiden name? She was Helen Quinn when I met her. I think she was brought up in London. All very respectable.’
‘Did she have a job? Before, I mean.’
‘I suppose so. She never talked about it.’
‘Did she have any family?’
‘She never said.’
‘I wondered about those pictures on her mantel.’
‘That’s Phil’s lot. Some uncle who went out to Burma and his mum and dad. None of them are Helen’s. I miss her.’ Vi let out a sob. ‘The thing is, once you’re married, you’re on your own all day and Helen was my pal. She was ever such fun, Miss Bevan. If she were here, she’d know what to do about Billy not coming home. Helen was practical that way. Everyone round the doors is nice, but she was a real mate. It’s been a terrible week. Where on earth is he?’
‘When your husband stayed out before, Mrs Randall,’ Mirabelle tried, shifting slightly because she wasn’t sure how Vi might react, ‘where was he then?’
‘I don’t know.’ The words came very loud. ‘I mean, when you’re first married, it can be hard. You just have to get on. He’d go off with his mates, I suppose. Drinking and that.’
‘His mates?’
‘Yeah. Friends.’
‘Do you think that’s what he’s done now?’
‘Brighton’s different. I mean, I’m having a baby. When blokes go out in Brighton, they go to the pub down the road and they’re home by eleven. I went down last night before closing time but no one had a clue where Billy had got to. You don’t want to be the kind of wife who goes looking for her husband, do you? It’s embarrassing. But it got so late.’
‘And no one had seen him?’
‘No.’
Mirabelle was about to suggest again that they call the police and then make a list of places Billy Randall frequented, apart from the local public house. She wasn’t sure how Vi might take the idea. The poor girl said she wanted to be practical, but she wasn’t behaving that way.
‘Well, perhaps it would be best—’ Mirabelle started, but she was cut off by the sound of the front door opening. It banged closed and there was a cheery call from the hallway.
‘Vi!’ Billy Randall took off his hat as he walked into the room. Vi’s eyes lit with fury. She sprang out of the chair, launching herself at her husband.
‘Where the hell have you been? Where have you been?’ she shrieked, hitting him as she asked the question. It was like watching an insect banging repeatedly against a window. ‘You promised you’d never do it again. I’ve been worried out of my mind.’ When her open hands had no effect, she balled her fingers into fists and began punching. It took a moment for Billy to catch hold of her wrists. ‘Let go,’ she shouted. ‘Let go.’
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘That’s some welcome. And in front of a guest. Calm down, Vi, would you?’
‘Where have you been?’
‘What do you mean?’ He sounded nonchalant. ‘It was a big order, love. There was overtime. I thought we could use the money. You wanted that pram for the nipper. Putting the baby to sleep in a drawer is all right in the house, but what about when you need to go out, eh?’ He let go of Vi’s wrists and strolled over to the fireplace. ‘This’ll sort it out,’ he said, taking several coins out of his pocket and popping them into a tin next to the old clock. ‘Now you can pick whichever pram you fancy. Cash in hand,’ he said. ‘I’ll take more overtime if I can get it too. They say there’s a busy spell coming. It’s irregular hours, but it could be good for us. Well, what have you ladies been up to? Hit the gin have you?’
‘Oh no,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I only popped over to ask a few questions.’
‘Questions?’
‘About Helen Quinn.’
‘Well, that’s enough of that. You can see Vi’s upset, Miss Bevan. And in her condition. I’m starving. I thought you might cook me a little something, love. Returning breadwinner and all. I could murder a fry-up.’
‘I thought you were dead, Billy. I thought you were done for. When Miss Bevan appeared, I thought she’d come to tell me they’d found your body.’
‘Don’t make a fuss.’
‘A fuss?’ Vi was still furious. ‘I’ll give you a fuss. You can get your own bleeding dinner.’ She swept out of the room. Mirabelle shifted uncomfortably. From the hallway there was the sound of a cupboard door being slammed closed, then Vi swept back in. She was wearing a blue summer coat and, Mirabelle noted, quite a nice hat decorated with a silk flower and some pink ribbon. ‘I’m going out,’ she said, ‘see how you like it when you don’t know where I am.’
‘Vi,’ Billy pleaded. ‘Don’t be silly. You know you’ll just go to your mother’s.’
This infuriated Vi further. She snorted, turned on her heel and burst out of the room, slamming the front door as she left. Mirabelle cast Billy Randall a sympathetic look, although he had clearly brought it on himself. Calmly, as if accepting his fate, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Makes ’em feisty. Having a baby,’ he said as he lit up and then, remembering his manners, offered Mirabelle the box. She declined. Out of the window, she could just make out Vi’s hat, bobbing above the privet hedges in the direction of the main road.
‘I think she was rather worried, Mr Randall. She’d been up all night.’
Billy shrugged. ‘She’ll be all right,’ he said.
‘Where did you meet your wife? She strikes me as a talented sort of person.’
‘Talented?’
‘She keeps the house beautifully and I think she trimmed that hat she was wearing. And then there’s all of this.’ Mirabelle gestured around the living room. It was shabby but everything had been carefully looked after. ‘She has a nice touch.’
‘Oh yes. Vi’s good at that. She’s a homemaker, see.’
‘You met her in London?’
Billy looked momentarily nostalgic. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘We were at a party. She could do card tricks.’
‘Ah.’
‘You’d have to admire her Find the Lady. She has nimble fingers, my wife. She’ll be all right once the nipper turns up, you’ll see. It’ll keep her busy.’
‘Couldn’t you have called last night? Sent a message?’
Randall took a deep draw. ‘I wasn’t going to trouble anyone. The neighbours, I mean.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ve been short of money, to tell the truth. I thought she’d be pleased. I don’t mean to be rude but . . .’ He cast his eyes to the door.
‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ Mirabelle moved to go and Billy followed. She lingered a moment in the hallway. ‘You don’t happen to know what Mrs Quinn did before she was married, do you? If she had any family?’
Billy shook his head. ‘Helen? What she did?’ he repeated, as if this was the oddest question anyone had ever posed. ‘I haven’t a clue. Terrible cook though. I’ll tell you that.’
‘Yes, I heard.’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘I’m rather that way myself.’
‘She was an orphan,’ he said. ‘I know that much.’
‘I see.’
‘One night we were all having a drink and she said meeting Phil had given her a family again. I think she had been, you know, alone. It’s a tragedy what happened.’ Billy’s eyes were hard. ‘A rotten bloody tragedy, pardon my French.’
‘What’ll be a tragedy is if Mr Quinn is convicted for his wife’s killing, because, if I’m sure of anything, it’s that he didn’t do it.’
Billy Randall didn’t meet her eye. He opened the door. ‘He couldn’t have done it. Not all drugged up,’ he said. ‘They’ll let him off. No murder weapon or nothing. No motive either. They’ll have to.’
Mirabelle felt her fingers tingle as she walked down the path. People said the oddest things sometimes. They said what was on their mind, without realising. Really, she thought, she ought to try Mrs Ambrose. If anyone on Mill Lane would know about Helen Quinn it was the archetypical nosy neighbour. Yet somehow she found herself walking in the opposite direction as she figured out the way to the cricket ground.