Operation Goodwood Read online

  ‘Shhh.’ She put her finger to her lips.

  Benji crawled towards her, low to the ground.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.

  ‘Why did they chuck you out?’ Mirabelle hissed back. Answering a question with another question was the best she could think of.

  ‘None of your business,’ the boy retorted, his eyes blazing.

  Tentatively, Mirabelle peeked above the sill. There were three men in the room now. She cocked her head to one side. The new fellow was wearing a mackintosh and his gait appeared familiar but she could only see him from behind. Harrison was pouring him a drink.

  ‘You’re nothing but a snoop,’ the boy murmured, as he took a resentful swig of his beer.

  ‘I’d bet you can trust me more than you can trust either of them.’

  ‘Who says I trust them? Who says?’ The boy was angry. ‘You followed me here, didn’t you?’

  Mirabelle sank lower on to the cold grass. ‘Look, I’m trying to figure out who murdered George Highton. And Dougie Beaumont for that matter.’

  ‘Well, that’s the man you need to speak to.’ Benji gesticulated towards the window over his head. ‘He’s a copper. Not that anyone round here is going to spill their guts.’

  ‘Why not? Don’t you want the murderer to be brought to justice?’

  Benji shrugged.

  ‘What did they do to you?’ Mirabelle could hear a slight shake in her voice. Did they hurt you, Benji?’

  ‘I’d never let anyone hurt me.’

  Mirabelle struggled with how to put it delicately. ‘My guess is that there were parties down here. I don’t mean the hunt ball or the kind of thing that went on at the big house, I mean other parties. Private ones. Places like this that are out of the way. There was drink and a bit of powder and lots of men. I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s not as shocking as you think it is. Being queer, I mean.’

  ‘I’m not a poofter, all right?’

  ‘But they are.’

  ‘Mr Harrison’s not queer. Mr Crowe neither.’

  ‘George Highton and Dougie Beaumont were.’

  The boy relented, nodding peremptorily, his head hardly moving. ‘Well, I don’t take the powders. Only now and then. It doesn’t do any harm, does it? Not like, well, you know. The other stuff they got up to. Makes me sick to my stomach. Like you said, the men and that.’

  ‘It must be difficult to talk about. My guess is that Mr Harrison didn’t approve of what was going on, did he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He had a fight with Dougie Beaumont. He tried to stop it.’

  ‘Mr Harrison is just like most of the blokes. He’s in it for the motors. But you’re right. There were parties. Some weekends it was like Piccadilly Circus down here. That’s what Mr Harrison said. He’d had enough of it. They had to listen to him cos, well, he’s good with an engine.’

  ‘Did they stop?’

  ‘No. But it got quieter.’

  ‘Apart from the two of them getting murdered, you mean.’

  The boy swigged from the bottle. ‘Mr Harrison and Mr Crowe aren’t going to appreciate you poking your nose in, miss. That’s for sure. I’d keep your enquiries quiet if I were you. You might like some help with keeping it quiet, if you see what I mean.’

  Mirabelle couldn’t help but smile. He was trying to shake her down. ‘I think you might be confused, Benji,’ she said.

  ‘Me? Confused?’

  ‘Yes. Between the people who are criminal or complicit with criminals. The people who are out to hurt you whether you let them or not. And the rest of us.’

  At least the boy had the decency to look sheepish and Mirabelle decided to press her advantage. ‘Who do you think killed Dougie Beaumont and George Highton?’

  ‘I dunno. But I ain’t going to pretend to be all dewy eyed about it when I’m not.’

  ‘Understood,’ Mirabelle said, as she peered back over the sill. The boy was admirably tough – a survivor. Through the glass she took in the men sitting in conversation, the new arrival was within easy sight. He had taken out his notebook. Mirabelle’s heart sank but, she told herself, maybe it was for the best.

  ‘I might just ask that policeman, you know. Once he’s finished,’ she whispered. ‘I can get you a lift home if you like?’

  ‘No. I’ll stay here, thanks,’ Benji said. ‘They’ll let me back in when he’s gone.’

  ‘How much do you think they’ll give you?’

  Benji shrugged. ‘Gotta be worth a tenner, isn’t it?’

  ‘George Highton was being threatened. Blackmailed, I mean.’

  ‘Really? I pity the bugger who tried that on with Mr Highton.’ The boy was earnest.

  ‘Not you, then?’

  ‘Mr Highton was pleasant enough if you were doing what he wanted. But woe betide you if you refused him something. No, I’ll stick with Mr Harrison any day. He’s a softer touch.’

  Mirabelle believed him. ‘So when you get back inside, they’ll give you a tenner to keep quiet, will they? Are you reckoning on adding me in?’

  The boy took another gulp of beer. ‘Well, like you said, they ain’t going to be interested in you, are they, miss? I mean, a lady on her own is the last thing they have on their mind. The money’s elsewhere, isn’t it? Keeping stuff out of the papers and that. They just don’t want the world to know about, you know, all them poofters.’

  Mirabelle took a moment to take this in. ‘Thanks.’ She got to her feet, slipping up against the wall. She dug in her pocket and handed the boy the orange. He grinned widely.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  Around the front of the farm there was a new car parked next to the Jaguar – a familiar black Maria. Mirabelle opened the door and slipped on to the front seat, the cold leather giving way with a creak. At least sitting here would keep her out of the breeze while she was waiting for McGregor to finish his inquiries. He’d arrived more quickly than she expected – not bad for a copper. Not bad at all.

  Chapter 15

  It is always necessary to be loved

  He smiled when he spotted her – the wide, easy grin of a man with nothing to hide. As he ducked into the driving seat, Mirabelle caught a whiff of whisky and a fading smell of soap.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, as he started the engine. ‘So this is where you got to. I might have known.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d have coordinated your inquiries so soon. I mean with the local force.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ McGregor admitted, as he turned the car around. ‘Vesta phoned me and I put two and two together. She’s a smart cookie, that girl.’

  ‘Did she tell you I was here?’

  He nodded. ‘I wasn’t sure where you’d turn up, of course. I just hoped that I’d bump into you.’

  ‘So you think the two murders are connected?’

  ‘We don’t have so many murderers in England that two people who know each other dying in suspicious circumstances within a day or two doesn’t make me want to investigate the links between them. They were lovers, obviously. Was Highton the man you met at Beaumont’s flat the day after the fire?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll take a closer look at his effects. To see what he might have taken from the scene. A memento, do you think? Though I’m not sure queers are quite so sentimental.’

  ‘I don’t think George Highton and Dougie Beaumont were exclusive, if that’s what you mean.’ Mirabelle blushed. ‘They’d known each other for a long time though and they seem to have had a solid interest in common in racing. That made them a unit, I suppose, but I don’t think they were really a couple in the way most people . . .’

  ‘That’s just how it works, isn’t it?’ McGregor cast a sideways glance at her as he set off down the road. ‘There’s no point being coy, Mirabelle.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’ His tone sounded as if he was making an announcement. ‘And I can’t think of another woman who’d be able to talk about this kind of thing. N
ot just the murders, but the rest of it. There’s no point in diving in and investigating and then trying to pretend that you’re shocked by what you’ve found. We have to learn to speak about things. Not sidestep them.’

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘Is it? You always seem drawn to the worst. People are just a puzzle to be solved. One after another. It makes me wonder what you think of me.’

  She paused. ‘I like you,’ she admitted. ‘It’s obvious that I like you.’

  ‘But you don’t . . . you won’t . . . You think that I’m beneath you. I mean, this kind of place, this kind of set-up is closer to your world than mine.’

  ‘Homosexual racing drivers?’

  ‘Country houses. Sporting events. I’ve seen you in Belgravia, remember? I was trying to figure it out the other evening when you’d gone. I mean, if we’re all only a puzzle to you, why not turn the tables and try to figure you out?’

  ‘And what did you come up with?’

  ‘That the world is changing and you’re only just becoming accustomed to it. That you’re changing, I suppose. You’ve changed since I’ve known you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’ve come more alive.’

  Mirabelle thought of the first day she met Superintendent McGregor. It was four years ago, when Big Ben McGuigan went missing. McGregor had blundered into the office like a fool, asking questions. He wasn’t a fool, though. She’d got that wrong. And he was right about this too – they came from different worlds, and she had come back to life a little, since they met.

  She changed the subject. ‘What did Mr Beaumont say when you spoke to him?’

  McGregor turned down a country road. ‘You mean the father?’

  Mirabelle nodded.

  ‘What do they ever say? I didn’t broach his son’s predilections, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘Do you think he knew?’

  ‘The man’s an MP, Mirabelle. He saw active service during both wars. My guess is that he must have suspected what was going on, but there’s no way to tell. People shield themselves. Strangely, he was most exercised about the car. He focused on making arrangements for it. They can’t set a date for the funeral yet and it’s something positive, I suppose.’

  ‘The whole family seem concerned about the car. Beaumont’s mother mentioned it when I called to give my condolences and his sister and brother-in-law came down here to receive the thing. Highton said that’s why he came down as well. He had a share in it, it seems. It’s parked in Harrison’s garage, by the way, at the front of the house.’

  ‘Right now? They didn’t mention that.’

  ‘Did you ask?’

  ‘No. I asked about Highton.’

  ‘Do you know where his body was found?’

  ‘Yes. I called in at the local station in Chichester and spoke to the investigating officer. I got a little detail to be going on with. The body was found on the driveway, just where it turns away from the house.’

  ‘The murderer was waiting for him then. Out of sight of the building.’

  McGregor nodded. ‘Seems that way.’

  ‘And the threatening note?’

  ‘More like a rant – unsigned, of course. Whoever wrote it was angry. They felt hard done by. Part of the text is missing. There was a shower of rain before dawn and it washed out some of the ink.’

  ‘The letter got wet in his pocket?’

  ‘It was in his hand.’

  Mirabelle shuddered. The image of George Highton clutching the piece of paper that ostensibly killed him was a strong one.

  ‘Here.’ McGregor handed over his notepad. ‘You might as well read for yourself. I took it down.’

  She flipped through the pages. McGregor’s writing was abysmal.

  ‘You didn’t train as a doctor, did you?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  You can’t just set me aside like this, without anything at all. Bleeding heart is not enough. Do you think you’ll get away with it? Do you think I’ll let you cut me out? Then McGregor had noted that two lines were missing, too smudged to read before it resumed. I’ll bring you down. I only want what you owe me. I don’t have an axe to grind but I know everything – years of it. That might prove useful in settling this mess. It concerns all of us, but as usual it’s down to you and I. There was no date. McGregor had noted one word, which was smeared, looked as if it said money and another looked as if it might read family. The note was unsigned, or at least any indication of a signature had been washed away.

  Mirabelle considered the words carefully. She closed the notebook.

  ‘It was a frenzied attack,’ McGregor said. ‘It probably took a few blows to bring him down.’

  Mirabelle didn’t speak again until the Maria drew up smoothly at the coaching inn.

  ‘This is where I’m staying. I booked in for the night,’ he said.

  ‘Me too. Alan, I should tell you that there’s some kind of party circuit down here. Something organised. Boys. Drink. Drugs. A good bit of high society too.’

  McGregor’s eyes regarded her calmly. ‘You think that’s the reason Beaumont and Highton were killed?’

  ‘It might have something to do with it.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

  They got out of the car and McGregor retrieved an overnight bag from the boot. He’s more prepared than I am, she thought, though she couldn’t deny that she was glad he was here. As he made to move past her, she reached out and caught him by the lapel of his coat. Without considering the consequences, she pulled him towards her and, as they kissed, she felt her heart lurch. Then McGregor slid his hand around her waist and pushed her against the bonnet of the car. When they broke apart both of them were out of breath. Mirabelle tried to ignore the sense of confusion that was engulfing her.

  ‘Drink?’ McGregor offered.

  Inside, the place was filling up for the evening with several tables already taken. McGregor ordered at the bar, but Mirabelle hovered a little way off, spotting one of the women from the golf course. Angela was sitting in a corner next to the window. She was wearing a fetching red satin cocktail dress and smoking a cigarette in a long amber holder. You’d think you’d see less of people in the country, Mirabelle thought, but then there were fewer places to go. Next to her a man in a dinner suit puffed on a pipe. Glad of the distraction, Mirabelle waved and crossed the room.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Oh, hello. Are you staying in this old place?’

  ‘Only for a couple of days.’

  ‘This is my husband.’

  The man got to his feet. ‘Derek Waterman.’ He held out his hand.

  Mirabelle shook it. ‘Mirabelle Bevan. How do you do?’

  Angela’s gaze slid towards the bar.

  ‘That’s my friend, Alan McGregor. I ran into him while I was out walking,’ Mirabelle felt compelled to explain. Angela and her husband made no comment and Mirabelle was glad of that. She knew how it looked.

  ‘We’re fitting in a couple of drinks before we leave for dinner. We’re eating at the big house tonight,’ Angela said. ‘We thought we’d start early.’

  ‘Well, it’s only next door. How nice.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. Everyone is terribly gloomy.’

  Mr Waterman tutted. ‘Sorry,’ he said, drawing on his pipe. ‘Angela can be rather frank.’

  ‘The thing is that there will be Beaumont family members,’ Angela admitted. ‘And this whole business is just so grim. It’s exactly as we were saying earlier. I met Miss Bevan at the golf club this morning, darling. She knows the whole Beaumont clan, it seems.’

  ‘Yes. I saw Mr Crowe this afternoon, in fact.’

  ‘You’re getting around. Enid’s gone up to be with her mother, I believe, but yes, Michael will be here for dinner. And poor Dougie’s father too.’

  ‘Elrick Beaumont? I wasn’t aware of that.’

  ‘Well, I suppose he’s come to see to the car.’

  The car again, Mirabelle thought, as McGr
egor appeared at her elbow. ‘Won’t you join us?’ Derek Waterman offered. It struck Mirabelle this was the first time she and the superintendent had ever socialised like this – on equal terms. She wondered suddenly if perhaps that had been their problem – they had never had any real context. They went places together, but as a couple they were always alone. Though that hadn’t been a problem when she was with Jack. Remembering her manners, she introduced everyone, then took a seat and sipped the gin and tonic McGregor had bought. ‘Mrs Waterman was just saying that Dougie Beaumont’s father has come up. They are having dinner with him tonight at Goodwood House.’

  ‘Really? Terrible business.’

  ‘Dreadful.’

  ‘Do you know the Beaumonts too?’

  ‘I only met them this week,’ McGregor admitted without disclosing why.

  ‘You’re Scottish,’ Angela enthused, stubbing out one cigarette and inserting another into the holder. ‘Well, you must play a round at our golf course while you’re here, Mr McGregor. Mirabelle was at the club today.’

  ‘I haven’t got my clubs with me.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll have some spare. Though they’re probably rationed now. Signed in and signed out after what happened. Do you play golf, Miss Bevan?’