Authors: Sara Sheridan
The garage had a higher ceiling and was less cramped than she expected – perhaps a throwback to the days when it housed horse-drawn carriages. It was pitch-black inside. A good sign, thought Mirabelle. It meant no one was here. She felt in her clutch bag for some matches and was thankful she had picked up a book at Feldman’s as a memento. She struck one and quickly located the electric switch on the side wall. Once the place was lit – albeit dimly, by a solitary grimy lightbulb – she could see the garage was large and extremely well appointed. There was a proper servicing pit and a wall-mounted toolbox. Most of the space was taken up with parking spaces, with only a quarter of them occupied. It wasn’t difficult to locate the Aston Martin, which was parked right next to the servicing pit where Miles must have been working. It was green.
Her heart rate accelerated as she tentatively tried the car door. It was open. She slid into the driving seat. Inside, everything was ship-shape and there was a faint, rather pleasant smell of leather and engine oil. She clicked open the glove compartment. Predictably, Harry had stowed a silver hipflask inside – brandy, Mirabelle concluded after unscrewing it. It sat on top of some papers and a half-empty packet of cigarettes. The boy was eighteen going on thirty! Mirabelle flicked through the papers: car registration documents, a handbook and some letters addressed to Harry at a house on Wilton Crescent. They predated Rose’s disappearance and were purely social but they confirmed his family’s address. Harry, like Rose, had been a neighbour of the Blyths in town. They certainly were a cosy bunch. The houses on Wilton Crescent, if Mirabelle remembered correctly, were very grand and only a couple of blocks from Upper Belgrave Street. Harry no doubt stayed at the club so he could indulge his predilections to the full. It would prove a lot trickier trying to sneak a black jazz singer past long-time retainers in the family home.
Mirabelle slid out of the car and tried the boot. Inside were a heavy blue waxed jacket and a torch. She checked the jacket; in the poacher’s pouch there was a parcel wrapped in brown paper. The loose paper had been tied with string. Removing her gloves, she carefully unpicked the knot and put aside the crush of white tissue paper that covered the parcel’s contents. What she saw made her gasp. She quickly looked over her shoulder as if someone might have seen. Hairs all over her body prickled and she felt a lurch of nausea. Rolled up tightly, but unmistakable, was a yellow evening dress with a delicate silver thread running through the fabric. She pulled it out and let the gown hang from the shoulder straps. Rose must be tiny. The dress had a waist of no more than twenty-two inches. The material at the front was slightly dirty and smelled of cigarette smoke with an underlying vinegary tang, perhaps the trace of perfume. Mirabelle ran her hands down the seams. Sure enough, the hem was ragged. It had been torn up to the knee on the left side. No wonder Harry wanted to avoid the police.
Mirabelle’s mind raced. What had the boy done to his cousin and how had he done it? His alibi for the night she had disappeared had seemed so unassailable the police had scarcely interviewed him. To accomplish that he’d need accomplices – more than one, certainly. She turned over the possibilities, her mind racing so fast that she couldn’t properly analyse each thought. Was this child a murderer?
That moment, she heard feet on the cobbles outside and male voices. Mirabelle scrambled to return the dress to the package. The material kept spilling out of the paper and was making what felt like a deafening noise as she shoved it back into the jacket pocket.
She closed the car boot and frantically looked for somewhere to hide. There was no time to switch off the light but perhaps one of the other cars would conceal her. The far reaches of the garage were dark. In her panic she twisted an ankle as she tried to run towards the nearest wall where a large black Ford had been parked out of the way. In her rush, she fell headlong into the car inspection pit, managing to break her fall with an outstretched hand. She felt no pain but Mirabelle knew that was due purely to adrenaline. Her heart was racing uncontrollably. Deciding it was best to stay put as the voices came closer, she pulled herself into the corner of the pit closest to the Aston. The light was poor, and as she couldn’t see the green car or any of the area around it, if the men stayed by the vehicle, they wouldn’t be able to see her either.
Mirabelle froze as she recognised Harry’s distinctive voice. He was playing with his car keys, Singing them into the air and catching them. Then she heard Miles open the car door so the boy could get in. Mirabelle tried to slow her breathing. Her senses were on fire and she was sure that from here, she could actually smell the men.
‘I tuned her up,’ Miles said.
The car engine roared into life and a cloud of engine fumes sank into the inspection pit.
‘That sounds much better,’ Harry said.
‘I hope the lady …’ Miles’s voice trailed off.
‘Don’t you worry about that!’ The boy’s voice had an edge. ‘I’ll get what I want. It’s all going to work out perfectly, Miles. You’ll see. And don’t worry about that old aunt impersonator either, whoever she is. If you see her again give her what for. Did you leave my jacket in the boot?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
The car pulled off slowly. Mirabelle heard Miles sighing, the light being snapped off and his footsteps receding. With some effort she pulled herself out of the pit and limped towards the pool of light at the garage exit. There was blood on her stocking – she must have bashed her ankle when she fell in – and now a long rip snaked up her calf. As she bent down to touch her leg she could see that her wrist was slightly swollen. But there was no time to attend to that now. Out of sight at the end of the alleyway she heard Harry’s car turn left.
Mirabelle’s mind was whizzing. Miles was an accomplice to whatever Harry had done. Had the boy really kidnapped his own cousin? It certainly seemed that way and, worse, he’d hurt her. The dress was torn. Come to think of it, worse still, the dress had been removed. Was this about money? Some kind of family feud? Surely the boy wouldn’t hold his own aunt and uncle to ransom. How could he?
Mirabelle felt fury rising in her belly and then a sense of confusion. Momentarily her outrage overcame the pain. There was something else entirely going on here and poor Lindon had become caught up in it. And then it occurred to Mirabelle: the dress, the fact that Harry had kept the dress, meant most likely that Rose must be alive. To keep it otherwise was crazy – it was too incriminating. The most logical explanation was that somehow it would be used as a lever to get something he wanted. A ransom, perhaps. And, if that was the case, the girl was safe somewhere. If she was alive she could be found. The realisation spurred her on.
Mirabelle checked her watch. It was after three o’clock. She limped slowly up the alley. The main street was deserted. There was never a taxi when you wanted one. She briefly contemplated taking a car from the garage. Some people left their keys under the sun visor. Of course, stealing a car constituted a felony, but it might be worth committing a crime if in following Harry, she could rescue Rose. But it was too late now and the Aston had gone. Besides, with her ankle so badly twisted she would find it difficult to drive. Mirabelle gritted her teeth as the injury began to sting. She inhaled deeply and then coughed as the fog hit her lungs.
‘Damn it,’ she cursed out loud.
She’d been too slow again. She should have kept hold of the parcel. If only she’d had the gumption to jump into a car the minute Miles left. Her injuries had put her into shock, she realised. She’d been in shock before. It slowed you down. In circumstances like this an agent ought to focus on fixing themselves up, she remembered. But Mirabelle felt angry. It had been her best instinct but she hadn’t enjoyed hiding like a coward.
‘Sorry, Jack,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I’ll do better next time.’
Go where there is no path and leave a trail.
Vesta and Charlie were getting cosy at the corner table in Duke’s bar. They were both on their second martinis and had finished a tiny bowl of crackers. Duke’s bar looked the same late at night as it did in the afternoon, which, Vesta realised, made it very intimate. It was easy to lose track of time when she was with Charlie. He was telling her about his service days. He’d joined up young and she’d made the calculations – he was twenty-eight, making him, by her reckoning, the perfect age to settle down. They’d been sitting together for almost an hour, and his proximity still gave her a warm glow. It was as if they’d been there for ever – in a dreamworld.
When Mirabelle walked in, Vesta didn’t recognise her for an instant. Mirabelle seldom looked dishevelled but her whole demeanour had changed. She was limping, her stockings were in tatters, and she was holding her right arm against her stomach.
‘Mirabelle?’ Vesta jumped to her feet. ‘What on earth has happened? You look dreadful!’
Mirabelle collapsed onto a seat beside the couple. She was deathly pale and looked exhausted.
‘Ma’am, I think you need a drink,’ said Charlie.
‘Water,’ Mirabelle mouthed.
The Italian waiter appeared. ‘Perhaps it would be best to help Madam into the back? We have a first aid kit.’
‘Do you have iodine?’ Mirabelle asked.
‘And we’ll need ice.’ Charlie took charge. ‘Looks like your hand’s taken a blow. Did you hit someone?’
Mirabelle smiled weakly. ‘No. I fell into a pit.’
It took a few minutes to get everything organised. The barman called the receptionist who said she would try to find a replacement pair of nylons. Her tone of voice made it clear this was not an easy task on a Sunday. Of all the rationed clothes, stockings were famously the most difficult to get hold of – on or off the black market. In the meantime Mirabelle, Vesta and Charlie removed to the room where Eddie had been working on Friday night.
Charlie insisted on taking charge of the medical care after explaining that he’d had some experience during the war. He made a cold compress for Mirabelle’s wrist and disinfected the leg wound with iodine.
Mirabelle eyed this new companion out of the corner of her eye and looked quizzically at Vesta.
‘Charlie knew Lindon. He was there on Thursday night,’ said Vesta, ‘but he left before it all happened.’
As Charlie worked, she described everything she’d found out in detail. Charlie knew Vesta was sharp but now he realised she’d taken in every word, drawn conclusions and tied together what she’d discovered. She had an uncanny eye for detail and remembered every name, time and opinion anyone had offered. He hadn’t thought of the scraps of information as part of a coherent story until now. It was as if Vesta had been piecing together a jigsaw inside her head. It was impressive.
‘So, Barney’s the one we need to speak to next,’ she concluded. ‘I mean he kept Lindon’s sax and somehow got it back to him but he didn’t tell anyone that. The guy gave false evidence to the police. He was the last one out of the place on Thursday night or Friday morning – he locked up and walked Tombo as far as Piccadilly. Even more importantly, he was the bloke who told Lindon the police were after him and, basically, encouraged him to take off. Barney knows what really happened, or at least knows more than he’s saying.’
Mirabelle nodded. ‘Yes. I think he does. But I’ve talked to him already and I’d say we’d have a tough time cracking him. Why would he come clean? Besides, we’ve bigger fish to fry. I checked Harry’s car. I don’t think Rose is dead, Vesta. Harry has her evening gown. I don’t know why.’
‘You mean he’s got the dress she was wearing? Do you think he kidnapped her?’
‘The police found a scrap of material from it up at Coram’s Fields. When I saw it in the car boot I should have grabbed the parcel. It all happened too quickly. I don’t know if Harry’s our man, but he’s involved and he knows what’s going on. He’s an arrogant little sod too, but then he’s eighteen, I suppose. The main thing is, Rose is probably still alive.’
‘What was Harry doing with the dress?’ Vesta asked.
‘Ransom? Either he’s ransoming her or he’s being held to ransom. I don’t know. He’s hard to read. But why ever he has it, at least it means she’s still in the game.’ Mirabelle sighed.
‘We should tell the police. How long ago did he leave the club?’
‘No, we can’t bring in the police.’
‘Why not? I mean, this proves Lindon was innocent, doesn’t it?’
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘It points in that direction, and of course we could report it, but imagine what McGregor would be like if we did that in Brighton. The police up here won’t be any different. Everything we’ve found is hearsay. There’s no proof whatsoever. And we’re in London, so they don’t know us. The Met is convinced it was Lindon, and he died in their custody. So they now want it to be Lindon. I’d like to have some solid evidence before we go to them. They’re not going to want to arrest a boy like Harry without a concrete reason. And even if Green is a smart cookie, he’s not going to be there till tomorrow. No, our best plan of action is to look for evidence. Going to the police now will hold everything up. There’s a girl being held somewhere, I’m convinced of it. You know as well as I do, the police only slow you down.’
Charlie looked sideways at the women. He didn’t like to interrupt. He reached into the first aid kit and brought out some painkillers. ‘Well, Miss Bevan, you’re gonna need these,’ he said, unscrewing the bottle and spilling a pile onto Mirabelle’s palm. ‘Take two at a time. Every four hours or so.’