British Bulldog (5 page)

Mirabelle nodded. However eccentric she was, Matron Gard was sharp as a tack.

‘He’s dead, is he? That’s a tragedy. He was one of our finest. But surely he was a young man and handsome? I seem to remember that. Gosh, he went early.’

‘Lung cancer,’ confided Mirabelle. ‘I suppose he must have been thirty when he came out of France. Or close to it. I only met him twice, very briefly. He died last Friday and in his will he asked me to find an old friend, Philip Caine. Flight Lieutenant Caine? Do you know that name?’

Matron shook her head. ‘Who is he?’

‘He’s the man Bradley escaped with. Somehow Caine got left behind in France. They last saw each other twenty miles outside Paris – I don’t even know in which direction. I’m not sure why Bradley left it so long to start looking for him – it might be because of some double dealing over a woman, which is the only thing I’ve been able to find so far. In any case, Flight Lieutenant Caine seems to have been on the major’s mind at the end, though they hadn’t met since 1942. Caine’s probably dead, isn’t he?’

Matron Gard put down her teacup. ‘Well, I must say, dear, I don’t ever like to assume people are dead. If you were that man’s mother how would you feel if someone just took it for granted that he was done for?’

‘But it’s so long ago,’ Mirabelle burst out, suddenly passionate. ‘The war has been over for almost ten years. If Caine was alive wouldn’t Bradley have known? Wouldn’t they have run into each other by now? He found me after all this time on a far more sketchy acquaintance. It all seems so long ago.’

Matron tutted. ‘Nothing is long ago in an archive. In the records we treat the dead the same as the living. Why, that’s the whole point of keeping papers. It doesn’t matter if it’s a hundred years or only a few weeks. It’s all filed away, fresh as the day it went under the covers.‘

Mirabelle eyed the nearest boxes. She could see why Matron Gard had been put in charge of sorting out this mayhem. The papers wouldn’t dare stay disorganised for long.

‘I suppose that’s true,’ she said, realising that Vesta thought of information in the same way. The files at McGuigan & McGuigan
contained fulsome records. When Mirabelle had challenged Vesta about it, she said you never knew when some small detail might be required. Now the habit seemed comforting.

Matron Gard continued. ‘The trouble here is that, apart from the geographical filing, the system is very patchy. It’s not even alphabetical yet. Some of it is filed according to date but not much. We’ll get to the bottom of it eventually but there is a great deal to do, cross-referencing and so forth.’ The old nurse thought for a moment. ‘Do you want me to have a look for this fellow?’

Mirabelle found herself grasping the woman’s thick fingers in gratitude. It had been a trying day.

‘If you have French records …’

‘French records? My dear. Almost the whole of the upper floor is French.’ The matron waved her arm in the air with a flourish. ‘The Red Cross had extensive field hospitals all over France. Tell me, what was this man’s name again?’

‘Philip Caine. Flight Lieutenant Philip Caine. RAF. He was a flier.’

‘A pilot? So many heroes. I tell you what, he’ll make a very good training exercise. We owe it to the people who died to make sure we record what happened properly. Who knows what information might be useful in the future? These records have reunited families. They’ve brought together comrades in arms. And – this is very important – sometimes they just let the people who are left know what happened. People don’t always get to say goodbye.’

Mirabelle’s expression betrayed her and the old lady paused. Fortunately, she was of a breed that would never ask a personal question no matter how much private information passed through her hands. ‘I tell you what, when the team gets here that’s what I’ll start them on. They’ll have to go through the lot in any case. We might as well take France first.’

Mirabelle smiled. She restrained herself from hugging the
old woman and instead focused on the information she required. ‘He was last seen about twenty miles outside Paris in the summer of 1942. I don’t have any more than that, I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t worry. If he’s upstairs we’ll track him down.’

‘Is there a telephone here?’

Matron’s eyes twinkled at the absurdity of Mirabelle’s question. ‘It might be better if you leave me an address. I shall write to you if we find something.’

‘That’s very helpful. Thank you.’ Mirabelle reached for a pen and paper and decided that when she received the major’s money she’d definitely make a donation. The British Red Cross was invaluable.

Chapter 6

There is nothing like a dream to create the future
.

F
eeling a good deal better, Mirabelle caught the Tube back across town. Perhaps things weren’t hopeless after all. Bradley’s request was odd but there was nothing threatening about it. If he hadn’t mentioned Jack, she wouldn’t have become so exercised. Really, it was time she moved on.

A little boy wearing shorts positioned himself on the seat opposite and perched on his heels, smudging the glass with his hot little hand until his mother became agitated and pulled him down into a sitting position. Mirabelle noticed the boy was strapped into a leather harness. Well, really, she thought. Even Panther can heel.

‘Don’t be a nuisance, Frankie.’ The woman smiled apologetically and looked away.

Five minutes later Mirabelle disembarked at Embankment. Rain was dripping from the trees as she cut past Somerset House onto the Strand; the snow had all but disappeared. A thin fog wound across the pavement. Canopies weighed down by pools of rainwater sagged ominously over the shop doorways. A man in a shabby demob suit was smoking on the corner, in conversation with a woman whose winter coat was heavily patched. Mirabelle avoided their eyes. Outside a tobacconist’s shop a life-size model of a Red Indian was chained to the railings.

Aware that her footsteps were echoing in her ears, Mirabelle turned along Kingsway and made for the Air Ministry. Matron
Gard had been willing to help, but the sheer volume of paper in the British Red Cross archive meant that tracking Philip Caine that way would take both luck and time, if he appeared in the records at all. This should be a more direct route: the RAF certainly ought to know what happened to one of their captured pilots.

The building loomed towards her, and through the fog she could just make out a jagged straggle of icicles that had frozen where the gutter overflowed. Periodically a thick drip of water plummeted four storeys to land on the pavement with a dull splash. Mirabelle pushed the brass handle of the glazed inner door. At the reception desk an attractive secretary with glossy dark hair held sway – another girl too young to have taken part in the war. Mirabelle wondered momentarily what had happened to the army of secretaries and Morse Code operators that peopled London’s offices until 1945. Surely all of them couldn’t have married and become housewives? Was she the only woman over thirty who was still single and in gainful employment? She and Matron Gard. Behind the desk, the girl’s long legs crossed one way and then another as she studied an appointment diary. Mirabelle coughed.

‘Excuse me, I’m looking for an RAF officer who went missing in France in 1942. Flight Lieutenant Philip Caine. He was an escapee.’

‘Escapee?’ The girl sounded perturbed, or perhaps confused.

‘Yes. From a German prisoner of war camp.’

‘Oh, I see.’ The girl nodded primly, her eyes drawn back to the diary. ‘We don’t really deal with that kind of thing. I’ve never had an enquiry like that before.’

‘I wondered if someone might remember him. Or if you might hold any records?’ Mirabelle persevered. ‘Would it be possible to find out who his commanding officer was?’

The girl’s lips pursed. Her leg shifted as if she was terribly uncomfortable and this wasn’t her concern. ‘I don’t know.
Lots of men never came home. It’s an awfully long time ago, madam.’

Mirabelle felt a sting of anger. People wanted to forget the war; that was only natural. But there was a difference between putting the unpleasantness to the back of your mind and abandoning all duty to the memory of those who fought.

‘Is there someone else who might be able to help?’ she said crisply. ‘The war has been over for some years, granted, but there must still be serving officers who knew the man I’m looking for. He was a pilot.’

The girl glanced over her shoulder. Mirabelle could hear typewriters in full flow and the low hum of conversation. The girl’s lips parted. She knew she had to offer some kind of help but it was plain that she wasn’t going to do so willingly.

‘I think you might do best to contact the chap’s regiment directly. Which squadron was your fellow in? I can put you in contact with them, wherever they’re stationed. Though it has to be said, several wartime squadrons have disbanded now. They’re not needed any more, you see.’

Mirabelle ignored the implication. ‘Caine was a flier. A bomber. If you could help me find out his squadron, that would be marvellous. He was shot down over France in 1942.’

The girl’s eyes warmed as she took this in. ‘Hang on,’ she said, figuring it out. ‘You’re searching for this fellow and you don’t even know his unit? Aren’t you a relation?’ She sat back in her chair, flicking her pencil between long pale fingers. ‘If you aren’t related to him I can’t give you any information. That’s absolutely not on.’ A cold flash of cruelty pulsed across her gaze. She looked as if she was enjoying this. ‘You could be anyone. You could be
a journalist.
’ The girl raised her voice as she made the assertion. ‘You can’t just walk in here and demand an officer’s personal details.’

‘But …’

Mirabelle wasn’t sure what she ought to point out first.
What if Flight Lieutenant Caine had no family living? And didn’t his escape partner count for anything? She was here, after all, at the request of a bona fide British hero. Suddenly, with a pang, she remembered what it had felt like when Jack had died. The loss turned in her stomach and she felt deflated. She had no real right there, either. If she tried to find out personal details about Jack at the Special Operations Executive, they’d kick her out. Of course they would. SOE made no allowances for women like her. Lovers. Mistresses. Friends. It was only blood that counted, and legal ties. A bit of paper was more important than love.

‘You’ll have to leave, madam,’ the girl said firmly. She licked a finger and turned over a page, directing her attention back to the appointment diary, though a flicker of her long lashes betrayed the fact that she was watching to see if Mirabelle complied.

Mirabelle reeled. Her cheeks were burning and the sense of outrage was building like steam in a kettle. ‘Well, really,’ she spluttered. If someone had walked into her office during the war and enquired about a member of staff, yes, she’d have given them short shrift, but there was no reason to be rude.

The girl looked up slowly. ‘I can’t help you,’ she said flatly, staring towards the door.

Humiliated, Mirabelle turned on her heel and marched into the freezing street with the words still stinging.

Outside, the cold air slapped her in the face. Jack’s face appeared in her mind’s eye. Her love for Jack was a shameful thing in the eyes of the world yet they had had eight wonderful years together. It was all so desperately unfair.

Grateful for the drizzle that hid her tears, she turned off Kingsway and passed a beggar sitting in a doorway. He had only one leg.

‘Miss.’ The man put out his hand.

Mirabelle felt suddenly indescribably angry. Why was there
nowhere for these men to go? Why wasn’t the damage caused by the Blitz repaired by now? No wonder she felt haunted by the war – it wouldn’t be over until things had been put to rights. She flung a coin at the man and in a flash realised that her fury was directed at Jack’s wife – a woman who had been allowed her grief. ‘He was mine,’ she whispered. The loss curled inwards and it felt raw. What on earth was she doing here digging up this old story? Humiliating herself. She didn’t owe Bulldog Bradley anything.

Without thinking she turned into the doorway of a pub. Inside, the regular afternoon drinkers shifted in the gloom as if they sensed new blood. She took a deep breath and realised she was the only woman in the place. The urge to scream or cry disappeared, and dismissing any reservations she stalked to the bar and ordered a whisky. When the single shot appeared the smoky taste revived her. She took out a handkerchief and dried her face.

‘It’s bitter outside,’ the barman said.

Mirabelle was in no mood for small talk. She downed the rest of the malt in one.

‘Thank you,’ she managed as she pushed the glass back over the bar.

Suddenly she wanted to be back in Brighton – not here in the tatty, uncaring city. She wanted to run a long hot bath and stare at the crackle-glazed tiles on her bathroom wall and sit in the window afterwards and watch the world go by. She wanted to sleep in her own bed and forget that Bulldog Bradley had left her this troublesome bequest and that she’d written a thoughtless letter to his widow. She wanted to forget all of it.

Chapter 7

All roads lead home
.

M
irabelle slept only fitfully. It was still dark when she opened her eyes and for once she felt at peace. The winter dawn stole slowly over the horizon. The bedroom smelled faintly of orange bath oil. She had finished the last of the bottle the night before, that and the whisky, staying up late wrapped in Jack’s old dressing gown watching the moon, warmed through by the lazy hot water. Now she fumbled for her watch and squinted, trying to focus on the tiny figures etched on the face in gold. It was only just seven o’clock. Outside the long window the streetlamps flickered and a policeman on his beat crossed the road and stood staring at the ocean. She watched him for a while, then shifted her gaze and caught sight of herself in the ornate mirror propped next to the fireplace. She did not look like the frantic woman she had been in London, but Mirabelle knew that grief and shame lingered only slightly under the surface. Jack was under her skin. He was part of her. She wondered what advice she would give herself if she were a concerned friend. Whatever it was, she doubted she’d take it – good advice was easier to give than to put into action. She’d tried hard to be good in the years since he died, but nothing had made her happy.

In the bathroom she splashed her face with cold water, relishing the shock. Then she pulled her green tweed suit and fur-lined ankle boots out of her wardrobe. Even on good days she rarely bothered with breakfast. There was no question of
eating this morning. Instead, at just past eight o’clock, she left her flat and turned down the Lawns in the direction of town.

First in the office, Mirabelle snapped on the lights. At this time of year the street outside appeared to exist in a permanent state of twilight. Getting back to a normal routine was what she needed, Mirabelle told herself as she looked round. Vesta’s solitary cup and plate lay washed beside the sink and a list of Bill’s calls for the day was propped on his desk. Several scraps of purple chiffon were folded neatly. Mirabelle pushed them aside and picked up a notepad covered in Vesta’s handwriting: notes the girl had made in the library. As expected, Vesta had made a thorough job of it. Mirabelle began to read, although she had already decided that she wasn’t going to proceed with her search for Philip Caine. Later she’d tell Mr Lovatt. Meanwhile, the results of Vesta’s research were interesting.

Bradley’s exploits had been reported in the
Daily Telegraph
and
The Times
alongside more dramatically expressed pieces in the popular press. His engagement was announced in September 1942 and the wedding had taken place three weeks later. After the war his name came up in the court circular now and then, or in connection with his local hunt, just as Mr Lovatt had said. His father-in-law had died in 1951, the same week, she noted, as Big Ben McGuigan. It was strange to think of these people leading their lives in tandem, huge events mirroring each other as they travelled in the same direction without ever meeting. Vesta appeared to have discovered nothing about Philip Caine, but perhaps she hadn’t started searching for him yet. Digging up information took time. Mirabelle put down the notepad and stood by the window, staring at the grey paving stones on East Street.

At nine o’clock Bill arrived with Panther at his heel.

‘Cold again,’ he said cheerily, stamping his feet. ‘At least it’s stopped raining.’

Vesta, it seemed, had neglected to tell Bill that Mirabelle had even been away. Bill pulled the morning paper from inside his coat and laid it on the edge of her desk as he picked up the list of calls.

‘Patcham,’ he told Panther, who wagged his tail enthusiastically. ‘Quite a sum outstanding in Patcham.’ He nodded as he totted up what was due.

‘What would you do, Bill, if there was a call you didn’t want to make?’ Mirabelle asked.

Bill looked up. ‘Lummy,’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know. If there was something awkward. Something that felt wrong.’

‘But it’s my job. It’s not up to me, is it?’

‘It’s never happened then?’

Bill considered. ‘I don’t like it when they ain’t got nothing, know what I mean? Before Christmas I had to call to the flats at Carlton Hill. It was a couple. I doubt they was married. The feller owed two quid or something and when the girl opened the door half the floorboards were up. They were using them for firewood, see. You can’t get blood from a stone. They shouldn’t be giving people credit if they can’t pay for it. They was young too – no more than twenty.’

‘But you collected the money?’

Bill looked affronted at the idea he might have shirked his duty. ‘It’s my job, innit? Course I got it. Bit by bit. The bloke managed to get a job soon after and I called him on payday – weeks it took. I let him know I’d leave the girl out of it as long as he promised to get the money back. It was two, three shillings at a time, but he made it. They know they’ve got to pay. They know they’re in the wrong, see?’

Mirabelle nodded. ‘And if there was something uncomfortable that was personal? Someone you knew, perhaps?’

‘The force knocks all that out of you, Miss Bevan. When I was a copper, or even now, if I had to make a call to an
acquaintance it’s bound to be worse for them than it is for me. In your personal life you get to do what you like, but at work there’s rules, isn’t there? You’ve just got to get on with it.’

Mirabelle lifted up the paper and looked at the headlines without reading them. Bill was right, of course. Bulldog Bradley’s bequest was a personal matter; it wasn’t mandatory. Wherever Caine had ended up, she didn’t need to get upset about it. She had a choice and she’d made the wrong one, but she was allowed to change her mind. Inside the offices of McGuigan & McGuigan things always ended up making sense.

The door opened and Vesta swept in, only ten minutes late.

‘Oh, Mirabelle! I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. I have great news. Charlie and I have set a date,’ she announced. ‘Spring, we thought. The last week in April. We reckoned we’d take a run down the coast for a few days afterwards. Charlie likes the idea of a honeymoon.’

‘That’s wonderful.’

Vesta delved into her capacious handbag and held up a list and more scraps of fabric – this time in an array of soft pinks. ‘The trouble is, I can’t decide between the peach and the rose petal.’

‘I’d best get off.’ Bill called Panther to heel and hurriedly swept out of the office. Vesta was oblivious.

‘I’ve seen a couple of things in Hannington’s but I hoped you might come with me to help choose,’ she continued. ‘There’s such a lot to organise. My mum’s finding it difficult. We asked her and Dad to come down for the wedding but she’s told the neighbours that she thinks I’ve run away and got married on the quiet. She’s embarrassed we’re not having a big party at church.’ Vesta raised her eyebrows. She loved her mother, but sometimes the relationship could be difficult. The Churchills had not approved of many of their daughter’s choices. When they first discovered she was working at McGuigan & McGuigan they’d tried to make her come home.
And despite the fact that they liked Charlie, living in sin was unquestionably frowned upon.

When she heard the news that a date had finally been set, Mrs Churchill had been conciliatory but Vesta was well aware that this was because her mother was standing in a neighbour’s hallway – the site of the only telephone on their street. The Kellys had been the first to get a television, before the Coronation the year before. Now they’d had a telephone installed, their house had become a veritable Euston Station.

‘Whatever you think, Vesta,’ Mrs Churchill had said, partly into the mouthpiece and partly in the direction of Mrs Kelly who was standing not ten feet away.

Vesta knew she’d get it in the neck the next time she went home unless the wedding was over and she was Mrs Lewis, in which case it would be too late. For now though, Mrs Churchill appeared resigned, having decided it was better simply to let her daughter get on with it. The truth would just have to be manipulated to make it more palatable in the eyes of her friends and neighbours; that was all.

Mirabelle filled the kettle at the sink and put it on to boil. ‘Why don’t we pop up to Hannington’s at lunchtime?’ she offered. ‘We might as well make a start.’

Vesta beamed and turned to take off her coat. Mirabelle reached for the teapot. It felt good to be back. Later, she thought, she’d ring Mr Lovatt and tell him that she’d decided not to accept the terms of Major Bradley’s will. Perhaps there was a provision to donate the money to charity or maybe it would simply go to Mrs Bradley, to whom, she felt, it really ought to have been bequeathed in the first place. She toyed with the idea of laying her own bouquet of flowers on Jack’s grave at the weekend. That might help too.

‘Superintendent McGregor called yesterday,’ Vesta said as she poured the tea. ‘I think he wanted to take you to dinner.’

Mirabelle sighed inwardly. That was another decision she
was going to have to make soon: what to do about Detective Superintendent Alan McGregor. Since the lunch at the Savoy two years before she had allowed him to take her out on several occasions – evenings which Mirabelle guiltily suspected meant far more to him than they did to her. She couldn’t continue to lead him on. It wasn’t good for either of them. She tried momentarily to decide whether she’d got herself into a pickle or simply into a rut.

‘I’ll call him later,’ she said.

There was plenty to get on with in the meantime.