Authors: Sara Sheridan
From behind the bar an older waiter pushed the fellow aside with a stream of Italian that Mirabelle couldn’t completely follow but appeared to run along the lines of discretion being overrated when there was a beautiful woman involved.
‘Come,’ he gesticulated, leading her up a small Sight of stairs to a corridor where he knocked smartly on a black door. As it swung open Mirabelle stepped into a sumptuous room decorated in a velvety forest green. A picture of the King hung over the unused fireplace. This, Mirabelle thought, was one of the private rooms where Jack used to meet Naval Command. It smelled of luxury – cigar smoke and juiced oranges. Normally you’d have thought it would be used for poker games or private dinners. This afternoon, however, Eddie was sitting on a leather chair, reading a file marked ‘Information’. There was a cocktail shaker before him and half a glass of something that was an astonishing blue colour.
Eddie jumped to his feet. ‘Jesus! Mirabelle! You gave me a fright! Can I get you a drink? I can’t recommend this blue thing. Not for a lady!’
Mirabelle made herself comfortable in an armchair.
‘So, Eddie, you’re still in the game then?’
Eddie motioned to the waiter. ‘Bring her some coffee and a saucer of champagne,’ he said. ‘She looks like she could use it.’
The man nodded and the black padded door closed behind him with a decisive click. Mirabelle unbuttoned her coat.
‘You know I can’t tell you anything.’ Eddie put the file into a box and then closed it.
‘I’m only asking because, the thing is, I need to speak to
someone
. It’s about that debutante who went missing. Rose Bellamy Gore? Eddie, something is very wrong. They’re holding that black kid, the sax player. I don’t think he did anything but the police seem set. I have a lot of questions. I want to know if they’re going to charge him. And I want to know what kind of statement Lavinia Blyth gave about her friend’s disappearance. And if it
is
a disappearance or if they’ve confirmed any kind of harm coming to the girl. There was another kid there – Rose’s cousin – a boy. They seem to be ignoring him and solely focusing on the women for some reason. Oh, and there’s a guy called Barney who works at Mac’s and at Feldman’s – I want to know more about his record because he’s as crooked as ninepence and they seem to be taking his evidence as gospel. The investigating officer is called Green – Chief Inspector. Do you know him at all?’
Eddie stared for a moment, sizing Mirabelle up. The questions had come in a flood. ‘Well, they won’t be charging your saxophonist with anything, that much I do know.’
‘That’s good. I don’t think they should.’ Mirabelle hesitated as Eddie picked up a sheaf of papers from the table. He pulled out a newspaper – the early edition of the
Evening Standard
– and turned it over. It flashed through Mirabelle’s mind that it was the edition they had been selling at the Tube station she had passed on her way to the club.
Eddie suddenly looked grave. ‘No. It’s not good news, I’m afraid. They won’t be charging your friend with anything, because he’s dead.’ He held up the newspaper. The headline read jazz fiend’s guilty conscience. hanged in cell.
Friendship doubles joy and divides grief.
The champagne and coffee lay untouched. Mirabelle sipped distractedly at the glass of water the waiter had hurriedly brought her. It was she who had insisted Lindon go to the police – his death was all her fault. And worse, she’d been in London, not a mile from where he killed himself, digging into the case without going to visit him in custody. Perhaps if she had bothered she might have saved him. The article in the paper said he had a guilty conscience but it seemed more likely that the boy had simply lost hope.
‘I was too bloody slow,’ she sniffed, pulling out a handkerchief from her clutch bag. She could feel tears running down her cheeks. ‘Damn it! I knew something was wrong. I could have gone and visited him. There I was at those jazz clubs, just talking, asking stupid questions while all the time … Oh, poor Lindon. What did he go and do that for?’
It seemed as if she trailed a long line of corpses in her wake. Could she have saved Jack? Or, last year, Sandor? Poor Lindon would have been better off without her.
Eddie mumbled something about brandy and she waved him off. Instead, he had a phone brought in on a long cord and Mirabelle tried to ring Vesta’s lodgings in Brighton – a bedsit she rented on the top floor of a shop near the People’s Picture Palace on Lewes Road. In the shabby hallway there was a shared payphone. It was after five o’clock on a Saturday and the bell rang out for four minutes straight. Mirabelle tried twice. No one was at home. Like Vesta, the other tenants were lively, young and single. It seemed unlikely anyone would be back before the pubs closed.
‘Someone has to tell her,’ Mirabelle whispered. ‘And quickly.’
The only blessing was that it wouldn’t make the Brighton papers. She considered calling McGregor but dismissed that idea immediately. He wasn’t the right person to break such upsetting news and in any case it was Mirabelle’s responsibility. Vesta would need a hug.
‘Poor Vesta. I’d better go back,’ she said. ‘I should tell her myself.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Eddie was a pragmatist. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know your Chief Inspector Green.’
‘If you’d ask around about the Bellamy Gore girl, that would help. Anything you can find out about the case, Eddie. It just stinks. And anything you can dig up on Green’s reputation would be helpful, too. He’s the one who’s presided over this. I’d like to know what kind of police officer he is.’
Eddie nodded curtly. ‘Don’t worry, old girl. I’ll assist all I can.’
Victoria train station was bustling. Mirabelle loitered near a hot-chestnut stand on the main concourse, drawn to the warmth. She had ten minutes till boarding. A dense weight sat heavily on her chest and she felt sick as the passengers came and went around her. Lindon had come to Brighton to ask for help. He was young and out of his depth. Then within twenty-four hours he’d lost all hope and killed himself – the desperate and horrifying act of someone either racked with guilt or terrified, trapped and unable to see a way out. Mirabelle wanted to believe it was the latter. People had secrets – everyone did – but she was sure that Rose’s disappearance was not down to Lindon Claremont. Surely only a mad man would keep an object as incriminating as the cigarette case, or at least only a mad man would carry it with him and show it to a stranger. Lindon might not have been the sharpest pencil in the box but he wasn’t crazy. And by all accounts Rose had a strong personality – Didi had described her as a golden girl. Lindon was far too easygoing to be a natural leader. It seemed unlikely to Mirabelle that he would be able to get Rose to do much she didn’t want to, certainly not in public. She was convinced the couple hadn’t left the club together.
‘I just handed him over,’ Mirabelle kept repeating under her breath. ‘I let McGregor send him to London.’
She closed her eyes as the vision of Lindon hanging from a twisted bed sheet in a prison cell flickered into view. There she had been, enjoying London, flirting with the memory of Jack and drinking cocktails when all the time Lindon was vulnerable and in danger. She should have known better.
‘I should have gone straight to Scotland Yard to see him,’ she berated herself under her breath. A vision of Lindon’s nervous fingers twitching as he sat opposite McGregor made her stomach turn. She’d known how afraid he was. Why hadn’t she done more to comfort him?
As Mirabelle boarded the train two women carrying shopping bags from the West End sensed her disquiet and moved on to another carriage. Still feeling wretched, Mirabelle headed to a first-class carriage, closed the door and sank onto a brushed velvet seat. The train juddered and pulled out of the station.
‘You all right, Miss?’ a portly conductor asked.
Mirabelle jumped. She fumbled in her bag for her ticket.
‘If you need anything, just call,’ he said kindly as he clipped it.
The door closed, and she fought back tears.
*
Brighton was colder, but at least the air was clear. Mirabelle paused at the station exit and steeled herself. It was almost seven o’clock. Snatches of music burst onto the pavement from the nearby pubs; already it seemed busy. Local trains arrived in a rush from out of town and the good-natured banter of nurses, shop-girls and secretaries floated on the air as they headed into Brighton for a Saturday night on the tiles. Everyone was wearing their colourful best – it felt like a carnival. Mirabelle started down the hill. Vesta had said she was going to the cinema but she hadn’t said which evening. Still, the Regent would be a good place to start and it was only five minutes towards the seafront. If Vesta wasn’t there she might well be in the adjacent dance hall. Outside the cinema an orderly queue snaked back from the ticket booth. Two middle-aged women wearing turban-style hats paraded along the line, selling delicate posies of Sowers and chatting cheerfully to the revellers. Mirabelle approached the entrance.
‘Here! You can’t push in!’ The man at the head of the queue put out his hand to stop her. ‘We’ve been out here twenty minutes in the cold, Missus. That’s not fair.’
Mirabelle stepped back. ‘I’m sorry. I’m looking for a friend. There’s been a bereavement and I think she’s inside.’
‘Oh sorry, love.’ He drew back. ‘I thought you were queue hopping.’
A man in a dinner suit and bow tie appeared at Mirabelle’s side as if by magic and grasped her by the elbow. ‘I’m the manager,’ he said. ‘Bereavement, is it? Right. Come with me.’
The hallway of the Regent glowed red, and people were bustling up and down the stairs, and milling around the kiosk. Two girls with trays of sweets and drinks stood at the doors to the cinema, handing out change and flirting with Saturday-night chancers in sharp suits.
‘We had a fella died inside one time. Takes all sorts,’ the man said inexplicably.
The smell of warm popcorn from the Butterkist stand made Mirabelle’s stomach lurch. ‘My friend wanted to see
Scrooge
, I think. She mentioned Alastair Sim.’
‘That’d be right. What does she look like?’
‘She’s black,’ Mirabelle said simply.
‘A darkie?’
Mirabelle bit her lip and looked at him sharply. She wished people wouldn’t be so rude but she thought if she said something now she might lose her temper.
‘Well, that makes it easier,’ he continued smoothly. ‘I don’t think from memory we’ve got a darkie in the pictures tonight. Think I know the girl you mean. Plumpish. Comes with different fellas? I’ve not seen her with one of her own.’
Mirabelle let his comments go. She felt slightly wobbly. The heat and the vibrant red of the walls, floors and ceiling were making her woozy. ‘Could we look in the screen, do you think? If she’s not there she might be at the dance hall.’
‘If she’d gone in I’d have noticed, love.’
‘I think we should check.’
The man didn’t want to but Mirabelle’s resolve was clear. He pushed open the door into the blacked-out screen and led her down the aisle, flashing a torch into the seating area on either side. The audience members squinted as he checked each row. He was right. Vesta wasn’t there. Back in the foyer Mirabelle asked the way to the dance hall.
‘It’s upstairs on the roof. But it’s too early. The dancing doesn’t get going till later on – Syd and the band give it laldy from about eight. The best I can think is if she’s here at all she might be in the restaurant or one of the cafés nearby,’ he suggested.
The man guided her gently outside. The cool air felt good on her clammy skin. She looked up and down. There were a lot of pubs, restaurants and cafés on Queen’s Road. Which one would Vesta favour on a night out? Suddenly Mirabelle felt exhausted, as if her ankles were about to give way. She leaned against the wall and realised she was shivering.
‘Bereavement can take a person that way,’ the manager said. ‘Might be best if you just left it to me. I’ll send her home.’
‘No. You don’t understand. I’m responsible,’ Mirabelle insisted. ‘We have go back inside.’ She swept back towards the doors with the manager in her wake. Inside he was immediately approached by one of the usherettes. A young girl outside the café had a bleeding nose. He whipped his handkerchief from his pocket.
‘Lean forward, love,’ he barked instructions, presenting her with the hankie to stem the Sow.
Mirabelle took the opportunity to sneak off and wandered up to the cinema’s restaurant alone. A dumpy waitress in a black uniform with a frilly apron plodded Sat-footed towards her. ‘Table for one?’ she sniffed.
‘No, thanks, just looking for someone.’ Mirabelle scanned the room. There was no sign of Vesta.
Downstairs the café was more lively with tables of weekend partygoers chattering animatedly. Mirabelle hesitated a moment. There she was. Vesta was at a table with friends. She looked happy and carefree, sharing a joke with one of the men. When she saw Mirabelle approaching the table her face lit up and she waved, jumping to her feet. Mirabelle’s heart sank.
‘Mirabelle!’ Vesta squealed. ‘This is Mikey, Gillian, Keith. Everyone, Mirabelle. She’s my boss.’
They said how do you do and Mikey fetched another chair. Mirabelle hovered.