London Calling Read Online Free PDF

handy for dancing after. I might give ice-skating another go on Sunday – it’s just down the road. What are you up to, Mirabelle?’
    Mirabelle wasn’t sure where her free time went. Saturdays and Sundays often seemed to disappear in one smooth movement that went from buying the Argus on her way home on Friday evening to taking a stroll along the Kingsway late on Sunday afternoon. Despite the occasional outing with Vesta to a concert or to a variety of, frankly, strange cafés of Vesta’s choosing where they tucked into mugs of tea and sometimes bread and dripping for a penny, she spent most of her time alone. Fridays could be difficult – she missed Jack most on the cusp of the weekend when they would have cooked dinner together and listened to the radio, curled up on the sofa.
    ‘I might do some reading,’ she said. ‘And if McGregor hasn’t got back to us by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll chase him up. I’ll give you a ring.’
    Vesta gathered her things. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Why don’t you get off early? I’ll finish up.’
    ‘Oh good,’ said Vesta. ‘If I catch the early bus there is this absolutely crazy old woman with a pink hat. She sings to herself ! That always cheers me up.’ She scooped up her coat, checked her make-up in a tiny compact and disappeared out the door, waving goodbye.
    Mirabelle raised a hand in a parting gesture and wondered what had driven the woman with the pink hat over the edge.
    Brighton was full of characters. During the summer there were the men who sold ice cream from bicycles, the children’s entertainers with strange bushy moustaches and beauty queens in polka-dot swimsuits. In the winter chimney-sweeps carried their brushes from house to house along the front and there was a succession of tramps who sheltered near the railway station and were moved on periodically by the equally familiar figures of policemen on the beat. Grubby children played in the streets of the city-centre slums throughout the year. The well-known faces of Brighton locals were like rhythms in a song to Mirabelle. Lately she had reflected wistfully if people even noticed her – a smartly dressed woman who came and went along the Promenade. Always alone. Never wearing black because she couldn’t bear to. Even when she smiled, her sadness was tangible. She felt a pang of regret and then pulled herself together. It didn’t do to feel sorry for yourself. Lots of people were far worse off. Everyone had lost someone.
    No sooner had Vesta left the office than Mirabelle began to turn off the lights and collect her things. She clicked off the electric bar on the fire and watched as the orange glow died down. She was straightening her hat when there was a brisk knock at the door. Detective Superintendent McGregor shambled round the doorframe with the air of an eager puppy.
    ‘Finishing up? Fancy a drink? The Cricketers isn’t too busy yet.’
    Mirabelle smiled gratefully. She liked it when people kept their word. In fact, she was glad to see him. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘A drink it is.’
    It was warm inside the bar, which smelled of stale smoke and beer. The Cricketers was always a popular pub, but at the end of the working week the bar was packed to the gunnels with men nipping in for a swift one on their way home. In the snug, three women, probably secretaries, Mirabelle thought, were being fawned over by a succession of men in suits. The drinks were stacked three-deep in front of them. Gins and tonics, by the look of it.
    ‘Scotch?’ McGregor checked, shouting over the din. Mirabelle nodded and pointed to a tiny table by the fireplace that was free. There were no stools left. Still, she settled to wait, watching the secretaries in the snug bat off the men’s advances with aplomb. McGregor returned with drinks, fighting his way through the crowd at the bar.
    ‘They think it’s him,’ he said, putting down the glasses.
    ‘Lindon. They’ve taken him into custody.’
    Mirabelle studied McGregor’s