Operation Goodwood Read online

  Operation Goodwood

  Also by Sara Sheridan

  Brighton Belle

  London Calling

  England Expects

  British Bulldog

  Operation Goodwood

  A Mirabelle Bevan Mystery

  Sara Sheridan

  CONSTABLE • LONDON

  CONSTABLE

  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Constable

  Copyright © Sara Sheridan, 2016

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-47212-235-3

  Constable

  is an imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Author’s Postscript

  Questions for readers’ groups

  Acknowledgements

  This book goes out to Jenny Brown, who is a guiding light and quite extraordinary

  Ten people who speak make more noise than ten thousand who are silent

  NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

  Prologue

  Goodwood Racing Track, Easter Monday 11 April, 1955

  Superintendent McGregor laid out a tartan rug and opened the picnic basket. The grassy bank was dotted with couples relaxing in the blazing sunshine, the men with jackets off and the women lazing amid a sea of sugar-starched underskirts and the layers of bright fabric that overlaid them. On the other side of the track, three drivers in grey overalls were swigging American beer straight from the bottle as they discussed the day’s programme and their chances on the track. As if to illustrate whatever point they were making, a racing car whizzed past and pulled in at a pit stop. The buzz and roar of the engines was overwhelming. Mirabelle smiled as the drivers became increasingly animated, one of them pointing at the bend, shouting over the noise of the other cars, conjecturing how to take it at speed.

  ‘It’s a good spot,’ McGregor said. ‘The finish line is just over there.’

  ‘How fast do you think they go?’ Mirabelle asked, standing on tiptoes in her high heels, as she strained to see.

  ‘A bit faster than we managed coming up here, anyway.’

  McGregor was good humoured but it hadn’t been an easy journey. The train had been packed, even in first class. The man sitting opposite them had had to give up reading the Telegraph because of the crush, and when he did, Mirabelle had had to give up squinting to make out the stories. The headline was about Africa – Kenya, in fact. Additional troops had been sent to quell what the paper termed ‘unrest’ but Mirabelle thought should be more accurately described as a nationalist uprising. There was a picture of a white man in a pith helmet sitting astride a bay horse. In the article there had been some discussion about the state of the British Empire, what with India having been lost. She wondered how it had concluded.

  McGregor passed her a glass of Vimto. ‘You must be thirsty,’ he said.

  Mirabelle sipped. It was the strangest taste – it occurred to her that children might like it but it was far too sweet.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, noting with relief he’d also packed a thermos flask of tea. She hoped they’d move on to that soon. Then, glass in hand, she settled down on the rug, smoothing her sage-green skirt and drawing her legs elegantly to one side as another racing car took the bend and almost veered out of control. McGregor made a sound that indicated how close a call he considered it to be. Then he strained to keep the car in view as the driver pulled up ahead. ‘That’s Stirling Moss,’ he said, in admiration. ‘He’s tipped to be the British Champion – they say he’ll take the Grand Prix this summer. We’ve opened a book at the station.’

  Mirabelle watched as the driver pulled in and sprang out of the car to shake hands with a chap in a suit. She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her skin though she was glad of her plaited straw hat – at least it kept the glare off. When she opened her eyes again, McGregor was staring at her, a smile playing on his lips. She smiled back, meeting his gaze. It was pleasant to come out like this, together for the day.

  ‘Ah, it’s starting,’ he said.

  Ahead several stewards with flags took their places and a line of cars formed, jostling like anxious horses. They made a colourful collection. Two Dutch vehicles were painted in orange livery and one Italian in red, but mostly the cars were British racing green. The engines roared intermittently as the drivers revved furiously. In response, the crowd bristled as people jostled to find a place from which to view the race. As far as Mirabelle could make out in both directions, there were rugs and picnic baskets along the grassy bank and beyond them an undulating crowd that moved as one, straining to catch a glimpse of the line-up. The tang of engine fuel thickened the hot air and over at the grandstand everyone turned towards the starting line.

  Mirabelle sat up. In the pit stop opposite them a crowd of young men were shoving each other out of the way to get the best view of the starting line. Then, as she turned in the other direction, she caught a glimpse of something that was wrong. Among all the thousands of people in the crowd directing themselves towards the track, she spotted a girl moving smoothly away from it. As far as the eye could see people were closely packed but the girl was wearing a distinctive mauve hat constructed of starched cotton roses, so Mirabelle found it easy to pick her out. As she slipped past one fellow, Mirabelle watched her bump into him, quite on purpose, slip her hand into his pocket and remove a clip of banknotes. Mirabelle put down her Vimto as the flag behind her flourished and the cars took off in a concerted roar. The noise worked up to a crescendo. Immediately one of the Dutch vehicles pulled ahead. With everyone else transfixed by that, Mirabelle took off after the girl, who was slipping away through the tightly packed bodies. A couple of people tutted loudly as Mirabelle pushed past. For a moment she lost sight of the mauve hat, but then it appeared again to the left and she used her handbag like an oar cutting through water, pushing it ahead to part the crush of bodies. The buzz of the engines lassoed everyone’s attention as the cars raced by. A hundred yards from the track the crowd began to ease and Mirabelle managed to catch up. She laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  ‘I saw what you did,’ she said. ‘I saw you pick his pocket.’ The girl tried to pull away. Up close, Mirabelle could see her dress was patched at the hem and her shoes were worn.
‘I’m sorry but you have to give back the money.’ She nodded towards the girl’s bag. ‘I won’t report you, but you can’t keep it.’

  ‘How about I gave you a quid or two, eh?’ The accent was pure cockney. ‘Split it with you.’

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The girl paused as if considering this. Then she pulled away and took off again, fast as a shot. Mirabelle ran in pursuit, dodging an ice-cream stall with a tight-pressed queue of eager children and following the line of bunting hoisted overhead as the crowd eased. Fast even in heels, she tackled the girl, bringing her down. Several spectators stared but nobody cut in.

  ‘I mean it,’ Mirabelle hissed. ‘Do you want me to fetch a policeman? I’m giving you a chance to do the right thing.’

  The girl scrambled around to face her. ‘You hurt my knee,’ she said, indicating a graze on her pale skin.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t go around thieving.’

  The girl reached into her handbag and thrust the clip of notes into Mirabelle’s hand. ‘You take it back, if you’re so keen,’ she spat, getting to her feet and walking away smartly.

  Mirabelle brushed the dust off her skirt. There was at least ten pounds in her hand. She sighed, staring in the direction she’d come. If she retraced her steps she’d recognise the fellow, she supposed. She made her way back past the Shell Oil stand and the kids queuing for ices and from there she cut into the crowd exactly where she’d emerged. Within sight of McGregor she laid a hand on the man’s arm. He was wearing a light linen jacket and his hat was finished with a blue and red ribbon, not dissimilar in pattern to the bunting overhead.

  ‘Here,’ she said, holding out the money. ‘I think you dropped this.’

  The man glanced at her, clearly more interested in what was happening on the tarmac. ‘Oh yes. Thanks, love.’ He put his hand into his inside pocket to check it, and fumbled, feeling it empty. ‘That’s very decent of you.’

  The woman beside him gave Mirabelle a dirty look as if this could only be some kind of ploy. She clasped the man’s elbow as if she was claiming him.

  ‘You got money on this race, do you?’ He was trying to be civil.

  ‘No. Just watching,’ Mirabelle said.

  There was a screech of tyres as three cars rounded the corner in unison, jostling for pole position. The orange vehicle had not kept its lead. Several people jumped up and down and there was a cheer as they whizzed past.

  ‘Come on Beaumont!’ someone shouted. ‘Come on!’

  ‘I like these shorter races,’ the man confided. ‘They do an eight hour, you know. But you got to have stamina for that.’ He grinned. ‘Can I buy you a drink, love? After?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Mirabelle said, ‘but I’m with a friend.’

  As she slipped back next to McGregor, he put his arm around her. ‘Are you all right? You just dodged off there.’

  ‘I had to powder my nose.’ She picked up her glass.

  ‘See that car? That one.’ McGregor pointed to a long vehicle painted green. It had the number ‘26’ on the side. ‘That’s Dougie Beaumont’s engine. Look at him. He rounded that corner and I thought he was going to take off. Fantastic driving.’ He sucked air through his teeth as the long car zoomed past. Ahead, an attendant stepped on to the track and waved a huge flag on a pole, cutting through the thick air as if he was mixing it. The crowd gasped. ‘Last lap,’ McGregor said, squeezing her shoulder.

  The clutch of green and white cars pulsed ahead of the trailing red and orange ones but it was close – only a second or two between them. Mirabelle wondered if Beaumont was going to come in ahead of Moss – after all, if he beat the man tipped to win the Grand Prix, it would be exciting. They were travelling at such speed, too. As the cars appeared again the crowd froze and then a grumble started – like a roar in the belly of a giant. Beaumont and Moss were neck and neck as they rounded that last bend and then Beaumont pulled ahead, managing to wring just a little more power out of the engine when he needed it. McGregor shouted, ‘Yes! That’s some driving.’ And the crowd erupted as Beaumont’s car crossed the finish line only inches in the lead. Beside Mirabelle a pretty girl in a yellow frock spilled her champagne with excitement, scattering it on to the grass as she jumped up and down. Everyone was screaming. McGregor punched the air and Mirabelle grinned, floating on the cheers. It felt good to be part of something like this – everyone enjoying themselves together. Everyone celebrating.

  The cars pulled in and the drivers slid out, removing their helmets in a smooth movement. Beaumont was surrounded immediately though he was tall so Mirabelle could still make him out. He was young and very handsome– his jaw chiselled like a film star’s. He was grinning as if he hadn’t expected to win – it was most endearing.

  ‘That was a great race. Fantastic!’ McGregor enthused.

  Mirabelle watched as Beaumont flung his arms around his crew. He looked as if he might burst with pride – the widest smile she had ever seen. And then he spotted the woman – an older lady in a pink dress with a matching hat, loitering around the garage. The woman gave a curious little wave – only a flutter of her fingers – and Beaumont scrambled towards her, hesitating before he picked her up and spun her around. She laughed, hitting him lightly with her handbag and then wrapped her arms around him. His mother, Mirabelle thought. Well, that’s nice. From behind, Stirling Moss came to add his congratulations. He reached out a hand and Beaumont put down his mother and shook it. Someone appeared with a bottle of champagne and the crew moved in a jumble until the cork was popped. The crowd began to settle down, picnic baskets were opened again, people animatedly discussed the race and money changed hands. Mirabelle sank on to the tartan rug and McGregor dug out a bottle of beer. He reached over and kissed her lightly.

  ‘Would you like one of these?’ he asked, thinking he really ought to have brought bubbly.

  Mirabelle grinned. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘Let’s get stuck in, shall we?’

  McGregor flipped open the bottle. She could smell the yeast and the barley even before she sipped it.

  ‘I don’t know how those lads manage it. Can you imagine the pressure and then the excitement? They must live on adrenalin.’ McGregor opened a bottle for himself.

  ‘Like you when you’re assigned a murder case?’ Mirabelle teased. ‘A juicy one?’

  ‘Me? You’re just as bad and you know it,’ he batted back. ‘And it’s not even your job!’

  And then the crowd moved again – a ripple pulsing across as a white car set off on a practice run and people’s attention was immediately caught. Mirabelle got to her feet and strained to see who was driving. It was quite addictive, really. She wouldn’t have thought she’d get so drawn in.

  Chapter 1

  The path that leads on is lighted by one fire

  Five months later

  Brighton, 3.25 a.m., Sunday 25 September, 1955

  Mirabelle awoke coughing and in confusion. The room was full of thick smoke. Panicked, she scrambled out of bed and opened the window to let in some fresh air. The smoke streamed out, funnelled through the void at the bottom of the frame. Her eyes stinging, she wasn’t convinced that opening the window had helped. She couldn’t even see as far as the pavement, never mind the seascape beyond. It took a moment to take in the seriousness of the situation. A fire. Here. At home. She lingered for a moment, woozy, before her training kicked in. Fires in the night had been common during the Blitz. She pulled a blanket off the mattress, flung the glass of water from her bedside over one corner of the material and then with her shoulders covered and the damp part of the blanket over her mouth, she dropped on to all fours and, wheezing, crawled into the living room. Immediately she toppled a pile of newspapers that was stacked by the sofa and blindly clambered over the detritus in the direction of the hallway. Her eyes were streaming now but she was afraid to close them and she knew rubbing would only make it worse. There was no sign of live flames here, not in the bedroom – not anywhere. She wondered momentarily
where the blaze had started. This puzzle stopped her, as if she was frozen by indecision. She considered saving something – grabbing some of her possessions, but she couldn’t think where to start. Then there was a loud bang as the front door crashed open and the vague silhouette of a fireman appeared on the threshold.

  ‘Here,’ she shouted. ‘I’m here!’

  The man grabbed her firmly by the arms and slung her efficiently over his shoulder, before carrying her into the entrance hall and down the main stairs. As the open door above receded, Mirabelle strained to keep her eyes open. Through painful lids, she could just make out tiny tongues of flame licking the banister on the second floor.

  Outside, she gasped for breath in the cold night air as the man laid her gently on the pavement and a medic rushed forwards with a blanket. Her cough was rapid as machine gun fire. Behind her, a team of firemen unrolled a hose along the Lawns and she could just make out residents from further along the terrace congregated on the other side of the street in a dim huddle of pyjamas and velvet slippers. Someone was handing around mugs of tea.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mirabelle managed as she caught her breath. Her eyes were stinging.

  ‘We didn’t realise you were inside,’ the fireman said. ‘Thank God you opened that window. Do you know if there’s anyone else in the building?’

  ‘Mr Evans downstairs mostly stays in London – he works there. I don’t know if he’s in,’ Mirabelle spluttered. ‘And above, the flat was sold earlier this year. I’ve never seen anyone go in or out.’

  The medic’s and the fireman’s eyes met as she began to breathe more easily. She lay back, the cold night air soothing her dry, gritty lids like a balm. Turning on her side, the blanket felt scratchy. She could just make out the shape of a body on a stretcher further along the pavement. Another medic was bent over it.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she asked, propping herself up. Perhaps Evans had been in after all.