The gates at CVA were closed. Mirabelle peered at the factory through the wrought-iron bars. She rattled them, but the lock held fast so, instead, she began to walk around the perimeter. From the cricket ground next door she could hear the soft thump and whack of a game under way. Now and then the patter of a crowd clapping floated across the spring air like some kind of natural phenomenon – birds flocking or water flowing downhill in a rush. It was sunny but there was a cold nip in the air – the promise of changeable weather. You could never trust it to hold, especially not in spring. It was game of the cricket club to start a match that would last several hours, but if you waited for the weather in England to be just right, you might wait a long time. Ahead of Mirabelle, two women carrying baskets piled with Tupperware wheeled round the corner giggling, and rushed towards the ground, checking their watches. Sandwiches and scones for half-time, she thought. Cricket was a game that involved tea – a sociable concern. She considered following the caterers. You never could tell where you might pick up information, but then she spotted something undeniably more promising. A side door in the factory wall was slightly ajar. She checked no one was watching and then she pushed it, but the door wouldn’t budge any further. Then the smell assailed her. A rank whiff of rotting food and chemicals that came from the other side. She lifted a handkerchief to cover her mouth and nose, and peered round the edge of the wood where she discovered several old bins stacked on top of each other. Sighing, her eye was drawn upwards to the small space above the door as she realised it was the only way in. Two empty beer crates lay a little further along the wall and she pulled them into place, then stepped up, fearless in high heels, and hauled herself over, coming down on the other side safely with the help of the stinking buckets on which she gingerly balanced as she made her way down.
The factory site was sizeable and, from what she could make out, this side of the building housed the canteen. Through the barred windows, she spotted a bank of tea urns and some large aluminium pots. Checking her heels were not smeared with dirt, she suppressed the urge to gag and moved off smartly into fresher air, to investigate. There must be somebody here, she thought. But the factory’s long windows were dark as she rounded the building and the tarmac was deserted apart from two dusty vans parked near the main gates. Opposite them, she peered through a window and could clearly make out the factory floor and behind it a series of small offices. During the war, a place like this would have been blacked out, but these days you could see what it was making. Piles of mechanical parts were lying around. Oilcans were stacked in a row, ready for action when the workforce arrived on Monday morning. There was not a soul here now, though.
As Mirabelle rounded the last corner, a large Alsatian dog came bounding towards her from the other side of the compound. She froze and the animal came to an abrupt halt a couple of feet away, letting out a deep bark. Mirabelle’s heart raced, but she held her ground. Somewhere, she’d read that was the thing to do. Hold your ground and show no fear. It seemed to work, or, at least, the dog stopped barking and cocked its head sideways, looking confused.
‘Don’t worry, miss,’ a voice shouted. The dog looked around and barked again, this time at a small boy who was perched high on the brick wall on the other side of the courtyard. ‘His name’s Napoleon. He’s hopeless.’ The boy grinned. ‘He won’t hurt you. Honest.’
Mirabelle felt her ribcage lower. The dog wagged its tail. ‘What are you doing up there?’ she asked.
‘I could ask you the same thing. It isn’t trespass if you don’t go over. You’re the one that’s inside, miss.’
The boy had a point.
‘I’m hoping to find someone. A caretaker, maybe,’ Mirabelle explained.
‘Well, you found Napoleon. Not much of a guard but that’s all there is. He’d lick you to death, wouldn’t he?’
Mirabelle regarded the dog, which was now panting heavily. ‘Hello, boy,’ she said, trying not to sound nervous. ‘Hello there,’ she tried again, this time reaching out to pet him. As she sank her fingers into Napoleon’s thick fur, the dog’s tongue lolled with pleasure. ‘You’re right,’ she said, as he whimpered, ‘he’s not much use, is he?’ As she stood up, the dog fell in at her heel, which made her think of Bill Turpin, the third member of the McGuigan & McGuigan team, who had the knack of taming any animal. Maybe his influence had rubbed off on her.
‘Sometimes kids throw stones at the poor fellow. Them dogs is German. But I think he’s a good old boy and it isn’t his fault, is it? I always bring him a biscuit. I throw it down first of all and he lets me sit here. Once, he tried to jump up but he can’t reach me. He knows that now.’
‘But what are you doing?’ Mirabelle repeated, patting the animal absent-mindedly as she stared upwards. Little boys were often quite strange, in her experience, but the thrill of sitting on top of a brick wall must be limited and it appeared the boy did so regularly.
The child nodded vaguely over Mirabelle’s head. ‘Best view I could think of,’ he said. ‘They won’t let you in. Not unless you’re a member. Very toffee-nosed, they are at the cricket club. My dad says we come from the wrong side of the tracks.’
‘You’re watching the match?’
‘I can see most of it from here. You won’t tell them, will you?’ The dog woofed forlornly and stared at the child’s leg, clearly wishing he could reach it. ‘I think he likes a bit of company,’ the boy said with a smile. ‘It’s a mutual arrangement, isn’t that what they call it?’
Mirabelle sighed. Napoleon was having a busy day between the interloper on the wall and the woman who had made it over the top of the stinking bins. ‘And there’s no one about? No one from the factory?’
The boy shook his head. ‘Not till tomorrow. Six a.m. the first lot arrive. What are you after them for?’
‘I’m trying to find out if there was a late order placed last night. If the factory was open for overtime?’
‘Late order? What do you mean?’
‘I want to see if work ran on all Saturday afternoon and evening.’
‘There was nobody here yesterday. Not after lunch.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I watched the juniors,’ the boy said smartly.
‘So what time did the place close?’
‘Lunchtime as usual. Twelve noon on a Saturday, miss.’
‘And you’re sure there was no one inside? No one at all?’
‘My dad works in the stockroom. I’m sure all right.’
‘And you were sitting on this wall yesterday afternoon?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you didn’t see anyone?’
‘The union wouldn’t have it for one thing,’ the boy pointed out.
‘How did you get up there?’ Mirabelle wondered out loud.
The boy grinned. ‘My cousin gives me a lift. He’s not interested in cricket.’
‘And he’ll help you down?’
‘I can drop down myself. It’s high, but you just dangle and then roll. Like a parachute soldier.’
‘SAS?’
The child looked delighted. Mirabelle sighed. It seemed her only way out was back over the stinking bins. I should have looked up earlier, she thought.
The boy was momentarily distracted by something on the far side of the wall. ‘That’s a six,’ he reported. Then he turned his attention back to Mirabelle. ‘What did you think they were doing anyway? If the factory was open all night?’
‘It’s my friend’s husband. He got home late and said he was working.’
The boy chortled. ‘Got caught, did he?’
‘I suppose he’s been caught. Yes.’
The question was, caught at what? Napoleon woofed good-naturedly. Mirabelle wondered if the boy might be able to haul her up, but she judged him too small and she didn’t want to topple him. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Enjoy the match.’ The dog followed her back to the side door and whimpered as she disappeared over the top.
Back on the street, she walked quickly away from the rank air. The sound of the cricket proceeding felt soothing. Really, it occurred to her, the club should be encouraging a boy who was keen enough to spend his weekend perched precariously on twelve feet of bricks just to watch some amateurs whack a ball around. From her point of view, it was just as well he had. The match must have broken for half-time and voices raised in conversation floated in her direction. She walked away from them, back towards the railway. Billy Randall had lied. He had come home with money that he said was from a shift he couldn’t possibly have worked. What had he got up to last night? she wondered. Where had the money come from and, more than that, why did he lie to his wife about it? The obvious thought was that he’d been out gambling, but most men would boast if they won, not keep it a secret.
Feeling a cold spit of rain on her skin, she could just make out the sound of groaning in the distance as the club’s worthies picked up their tea and headed, no doubt, for shelter. Mirabelle hurried her pace. Walking often helped when she wanted to think things through. It occurred to her that this line of questioning might be a distraction from what she was supposed to be doing. The idea of looking into Helen Quinn and her background was at least as promising, but so often it was the small details that mattered when it came to figuring things out. The lies. The things that didn’t fit. She couldn’t just ignore the fact that the man who had found the body was behaving strangely.
Heading up Mill Lane, she cast a glance at the Randalls’ house. Billy was sitting by the fire, asleep in his chair, exhausted after his night out. There was no sign of Vi. Reverting to her original plan, Mirabelle turned up the path of number fourteen and knocked on Mrs Ambrose’s door, which opened rather quickly as if the old woman had spotted Mirabelle coming up the path. ‘What are you doing back here?’ Mrs Ambrose snapped.
‘I came to find out more about Helen Quinn. I’m helping the police with their inquiries.’
Mrs Ambrose cast a low murmur in Mirabelle’s direction and it occurred to her that the old woman was wondering why she hadn’t been asked to help.
‘I wondered if you knew anything else about the murdered woman?’ she tried. ‘Anything that hasn’t been covered yet?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Her maiden name? Or what she did before she was married? You know – her job.’
Mrs Ambrose flicked her hand dismissively in the direction of the murder scene. ‘Mrs Quinn came here married. I don’t know anything about her life before. You should ask Violet Randall. They were thick as thieves, those two. Like children.’
‘You struck me as someone who was very observant, Mrs Ambrose. I wondered what you’d seen of Mrs Quinn during the months she lived here? What impression you had?’
‘I’m a nosy old woman, you mean?’ Mrs Ambrose didn’t wait for a denial. ‘Helen was no better than she should have been. Just a young woman with a taste for gin. We never had time for that in the old days. I mean, only on special occasions. But the Quinns liked a tipple, both of them. I expect he understood.’
‘And they never fought? The Quinns, I mean?’
Mrs Ambrose crossed her arms over her ample chest. ‘Everyone fights. You must know that, dearie, by your age.’
‘Do you know what they fought about?’
‘I’m not an eavesdropper. But she couldn’t cook. Not at all. You could smell it burning all the way over here. Her mother can’t have taught her anything. Many’s the night he gave up and just got fish and chips.’
‘Do you know where she came from?’
Mrs Ambrose snorted. ‘Clothes like that? London.’
‘And did her relations ever visit?’
‘Not a one. Nor his neither for that matter. It was just the two of them.’
‘I can’t help wondering what she did. You know, before she got married?’
Mrs Ambrose shrugged. ‘How would I know? She never said. A shop girl, I reckon.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Them clothes.’ The woman’s tone was insistent. ‘You mark my words.’
Mirabelle took her leave. She found the idea of keeping a house quite mystifying. She ran her flat, of course, but only barely. A marital home was different and it always fell to the woman. Vesta had been nervous about taking it on before she married Charlie, and Mirabelle hadn’t understood entirely, but suddenly, here on Mill Lane, she realised how alone some of these women must feel. Girls got married and were flung together, meant to stay in the house whether they were good at domestic duties or not. They were judged on the state of their husband’s shirts and their ability to turn out a home-cooked meal. No wonder they ended up hitting the gin.
She wandered around the block on to Dyke Road and cut through the gap between the houses into the Quinns’ back garden, where she crouched close to the hedge, knowing she would be difficult to spot. A few gardens along, three little boys threw a clapped-out ball against an old wooden hut. On the back doorstep, a couple sipped mugs of tea and talked animatedly, watching the boys out of the corner of their eyes. Somewhere, someone was playing a piano, practising the same tune over and over – Hayden, Mirabelle thought, though they were mangling it. And, ahead, the Randalls’ house was still and next door, inside the Quinns, it looked just as it had the night she’d broken in to recreate the murder. This is where they’d stood, all right, Mirabelle told herself, hunkering down. This was the spot exactly.