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can’t believe we never noticed it before. It’s really not much of a secret society, is it?’ Vesta laughed. ‘I mean, if we can find it just like that.’
    The lodge was a wide, three-storey stucco building in good repair. Corinthian columns framed the doorway, making it look rather grand, which was odd on Queen’s Road – a street tainted by traffic fumes and rubbish from the station. To one side, a small brass plate announced the building’s function, andthe front door was fitted with a large pane of glass through which a shadowy hallway could just be seen.
    ‘I always assumed it was a church building,’ said Mirabelle.
    Vesta eyed the door suspiciously. ‘You said they wear something like a uniform?’
    ‘I think it’s only an apron. And they have badges of office. I saw a suitcase packed with bits and pieces once when I used to work in London – little plaques and tassels. One of the senior fellows had it in his office. But I expect it’s a different drill in different places. If you want to keep things secret you need to let each group have its own way, you see. That’s how guerrilla organisations work. In isolated cells.’
    ‘Aprons! Bill’s right. Seems silly to me,’ Vesta snorted.
    There were no lights on in the building. Mirabelle rang the bell and waited. The tinny sound echoed inside. Nothing. Then she knocked. Vesta looked at her high-heeled shoes with concern, clearly expecting Mirabelle to encourage her, in due course, to break in. It had happened before. The lodge was not an easy target. It looked solid and impregnable. The girl squinted into the bright sunshine and fanned herself more quickly. She was visibly relieved when the door opened and a stocky, elderly man dressed in a brown caretaker’s coat peered into the sunshine.
    ‘Yes, ladies?’
    ‘Is this the freemasons’ lodge?’
    ‘We don’t allow women . . .’
    Mirabelle held up her hand. ‘We have come about Joey Gillingham.’
    The caretaker looked blank.
    ‘He’s the journalist who was killed yesterday,’ Mirabelle explained. ‘Is there anybody who might be able to speak to us about him?’
    The man’s hair was so white it seemed to glow. He fingered the collar of his brown coat. ‘Are you from the Express or the Argus or something?’
    ‘Debt recovery,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘McGuigan & McGuigan, Brills Lane.’
    The man stood straighter. ‘No one here will help you with that,’ he said. ‘The fella was murdered, weren’t he? He’ll hardly be cold yet. It doesn’t seem fitting.’
    ‘Still,’ Mirabelle pushed him, ‘I’d very much like to speak to somebody.’
    The caretaker paused. He looked Vesta up and down. ‘Debt recovery,’ he mumbled. ‘Wait here.’
    The door closed.
    ‘Well, he’s not coming back.’ Vesta grinned.
    ‘He will. They’re men of their word, the masons. Their first priority is loyalty to the lodge, over everything else, but they take honesty very seriously.’
    ‘And what are you going to ask if we get inside?’
    ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get a feel for things.’ Mirabelle propped her sunglasses onto the top of her head. ‘I always do.’

Chapter 5
    The little grey cells, it’s up to them .
    F ive minutes later the door clicked open again.
    ‘You’re lucky,’ the caretaker said, standing back to let the women enter. ‘He’ll see you.’
    Inside, the building was cool. There was a pervading smell of dusty books. The hallway was paved with black-and-white tiles. An ornate cornice skirted the ceiling and there were plaster reliefs on the walls that depicted a field ready for harvest and figures in Egyptian dress. Inside, the building seemed on too small a scale to house such finery.
    The caretaker pointed towards a closed door – the first on the right. ‘In there,’ he directed and retreated into the darkness.
    Mirabelle knocked and entered. The room was large and it was unoccupied. The walls were painted yellow and hung with three enormous oil landscapes and a